Waking
by sydedalus
Summary: A post-ep for "Wilson's Heart" which leads up to the beginning of S5. WIP but almost finished. It's a medical/realist fic which examines the coping process for House, Wilson, and Cuddy to an extent . Tries to stay as close to canon as possible.
1. Shock

**Shock**

He doesn't sleep well. Keeps waking up. Always someone bothering him. Not a good place to rest, the ICU.

He's awake now. Can't remember if he slept between now and watching Wilson stare at him and leave. He remembers everything else, though. Finally last night makes sense.

But what he dreamed or hallucinated or envisioned—no one's told him whether his heart stopped again, but the line that separates dreams from the things beyond dreams doesn't matter so much at the moment—he doesn't like it. He should be dead. It bothers him that he's not.

And Wilson's angry. _At least he came to visit_. He should be angry. For the same reason House is bothered by not being dead, Wilson should be angry.

House considers that he's never expected life to be fair. Death isn't fair either. But maybe he _has_ expected fairness and just hasn't known it until now. Maybe he's not so cynical.

He sighs, just a little, staring ahead at the quiet nurse's station. He doesn't want to be less cynical; doesn't want to feel faith or hope. He has to protect himself.

He knows that he's getting over a shock right now. Mentally. Probably physically as well, since he's not his usual restless self. And literally. Shock to the brain. Normally he'd appreciate the irony. Not right now. He's too serious. The shock has gone too deep.

Shock makes him vulnerable to feeling. He understands this, but it doesn't make him feel any less the things he's feeling. He's not bothered by the fact that for a while he wanted to be dead. And if his death meant she'd live, he probably would've done what he had to do to make that happen. The throbbing in his skull confirms this supposition.

He wants to tell himself he did it because he had to solve the puzzle. Not for Wilson. Not for Amber. For himself. Because he doesn't do things for other people. He dies for the puzzle, not for her. He wants to believe that this is the truth. He doesn't believe it. Doesn't believe the opposite either. Just…doesn't.

--

He knows time has passed when the pressure on his hand shifts. Ah. He must have slept after Wilson left because he doesn't remember Cuddy putting her hand on his, but he does remember it being there earlier. Clues. Puzzles.

Cuddy appears, leaning in from his left, saying his name.

"House."

Everything seems to happen slowly. The word, his name, sounds drawn out.

He looks at her. She looks tired. Good for having just woken up. Messy but good. The stimulation he usually gets from the sight of her is muffled. Everything is muffled. He knows it's the head injury. Doesn't care.

He knows he should be very concerned that he doesn't care about the state of his brain. Obviously something went wrong or he wouldn't be in the ICU. But he doesn't care that he doesn't care. Too muffled.

He's always willing to die to get the answer he needs.

She asks the same question she'd asked earlier. Blink if you can hear me. He watches her disappear as he blinks, then reappear. She's blurry. He counts. Three seconds to focus.

He should be worried. He's not worried.

He wanted to say something earlier. Amber, the bus, his decision—what he'd seen had been so fresh. He needed to say something. She'd shushed him. Now he doesn't want to talk.

She's pretty. Sexy. Always is. He doesn't want those thoughts, so he shifts his gaze back to the glass wall.

He listens as she tells him what happened. Complex partial seizure. Chase pushing phenytoin and diazepam to end it. CT revealing intracranial bleeding. Scoring a six on the Glasgow coma scale for three hours after the seizure. Slowly coming out of it. Took hours. Repeat CT in the morning.

It's something like 3 a.m. A _six_ on the GCS. Too muffled to care.

Medications. Mannitol to reduce edema and elevated intracranial pressure. Labetalol to reduce his blood pressure. Low dose phytonadione to clot the bleed. Carbamazepine to forestall another seizure. Morphine to control pain and guard against increased respiration. Acetaminophen to combat fever. Famotidine to prevent gastric ulcers. Ampicillin to prevent UTI.

Lots of prophylactics.

She tells him she wants to call Foreman to do a neurological assessment. The way she says it, seems like she's asking his permission.

He looks back at her. Whatever. Okay.

He tracks her as she leaves. Nice ass. He can't help but notice every time. Tracking her movement is easy. Doesn't hurt. Makes him dizzy, but not too bad.

He stares at the wall again. Not the wall per se. The empty space before him which the wall happens to occupy. His feet share that space. So does the end of the bed. Occupied by objects but no less empty.

He stares. Morphine. He doesn't feel drugged, but he's not uncomfortable either. Stiff, yes. Sore. Headache, but nothing like it has been. Neuropathic tingling from the leg, not too bad either. Not hungry. Not nauseous. Tired but not sleepy. Not very awake either.

Just…alive.

--

Cuddy returns. Says Foreman's on his way.

Foreman on the couch in the longue startled awake by his pager flashes in front of him. It's no vision. Just memory and imagination.

"House?"

Cuddy's still looking at him. Standing on his left side. She's taken his hand. He looks from her hand on his to her eyes. What?

"Do you know where you are?"

He blinks to say yes. Doesn't feel like speaking. Too tired or just doesn't want to. Either way, he doesn't feel like it. Doesn't feel like investigating the cause of the feeling.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

He sighs a little. She would press him. And he would normally roll his eyes or make a face, but he doesn't.

"ICU," he says. The letters emerge half-whispered. He's hoarse. Throat dry.

"Want some water?" Cuddy asks.

He waits a moment, then blinks. Sure, whatever.

She pours and offers. He looks from the cup to her. He's not that thirsty.

Suddenly she's concerned. Adds a straw and hold it to his lips. He sips, concentrating on the straw. He cares just enough to suction the fluid from the straw. Tastes like plastic with a hint of chlorine. A few small swallows and expending the effort to suck from the straw outweighs thirst. Just enough to get his throat wet.

He releases the straw. Looks back up at her. Still concerned. Very concerned.

He doesn't want to see it or doesn't care, and returns to the empty space beyond his feet.

He doesn't know why he does anything right now. He could be dead. Probably should be. Not swallowing chlorine-infused water sucked from a plastic tube, held in place for him by Cuddy.

He's always had the puzzle to live for. Curiosity. What comes next? He always wanted to know.

Not now.

He remembers telling dead Amber that he doesn't want to be in pain, doesn't want to be miserable. Those things have always been true. He lived because the puzzle distracted him from pain and loneliness and disability.

Not now.

He's not in much pain. Not that lonely. Not really miserable.

He merely is.

Cuddy moves, gets his attention.

"House?"

He looks up at her. Yes?

"Can you give me a pain rating?"

He thinks. His gut reaction is a four. Four is a very good day. But will she up his morphine for a four, send him to sleep? Not before Foreman arrives. Probably not when he leaves either, if he's still at a four. He doesn't know if he wants more morphine or not. He doesn't want anything.

"Four," he answers.

Cuddy blinks, taken aback. Really?, her expression asks.

He knows. She's surprised because the morphine in him is equal to about half his normal Vicodin dosage. He should be pushing an eight or a nine.

He's numb. In shock. Big deal.

Foreman arrives. He watches Cuddy meet Foreman near the door. Noting her findings. Foreman looking over at him with the disbelieving expression he wears when he's worried.

Their meeting breaks up and they move toward him, one on each side.

"House?" Foreman begins.

House shifts his gaze to Foreman. Still dizzying.

"I'm going to begin with a Mental Status Exam," Foreman says. "If you get tired, close your eyes for two seconds."

It's implied: _do you understand?_

House blinks. Yes.

"Okay," Foreman says. "First I'm going to say the names of three objects that I want you to remember. Ready?"

House knows he should resent Foreman's explanation. Say something biting to indicate he's still in possession of his wit.

Instead, he blinks.

"Hamburger. Fire truck. Flower."

Foreman waits expectantly.

"Can you repeat those objects?"

"Hamburger. Fire truck. Flower."

His voice is still set to hospital. Rusty and broken. He doesn't want to do all of the talking a Mental Status Exam requires. Doesn't want to blink for two seconds to make Foreman go away either. Just doesn't want.

He sees that Foreman's on high alert right now.

"What's the last thing you remember before you woke up here?" Foreman asks.

"Deep brain stimulation," House answers. "Amantadine."

His voice improves. It always does. He doesn't want to tell Foreman about his conversation with Amber. Too much talking involved.

Foreman nods. Looks questioningly at Cuddy, then back at him.

"Do you know what happened to Amber?" Foreman asks.

He's gentle when he asks.

"She's dead," House answers.

It's not just that he talked to her. Wilson's eyes told him everything. And it's past three a.m. No way she could have made it that long.

Foreman seems unsure of the next question.

"How does that make you feel?"

He's expecting something outrageous. A deflection.

"She shouldn't be dead," House answers. He's tired of talking already.

Foreman's forehead furrows. "House, that's not a feeling."

House stares at him. He knows it's not a feeling. It's a wish, a desire. The closest thing he has to a feeling.

He watches Foreman and Cuddy exchange glances. Foreman knew it was a stupid question to ask him. Part of the MSE, yes, but a stupid question.

Foreman looks back at him. Resolute. He's come up with a new tact, House can tell.

"Okay," Foreman begins. "Your cane was destroyed in the crash. What will you do about it?"

"Already…got a new cane," House answers, this time more slowly. Talking taxes him.

Foreman's more comfortable. It's a good answer. Accurate. Safe.

"All right," Foreman says. "I'm going to test basic motor skills and strength now. Lift your left arm."

House concentrates. His arm is heavy, but he can get it off the blanket.

"Higher," Foreman says.

He lifts it higher until it's almost even with the rail. It's shaking.

"Okay, put it down."

Foreman flips the back the blanket covering his feet. Too much motion, too quickly. House closes his eyes. Dizzy.

"House? What's wrong?"

He has to breathe before he can answer.

"Dizzy," he says. He sounds winded. Struggles to breathe through it.

"How bad?"

He breathes. Gone. Opens his eyes.

"Gone."

Foreman's concerned. "How bad was it?"

"Moderate," House answers. He's felt worse.

"Any nausea?"

House hears the heart monitor slow down. "No."

Foreman's gaze lingers as though he's trying to detect any subterfuge.

House stares at his now-exposed feet until Foreman shifts. Then looks at Foreman.

"Wiggle the toes on your right foot," Foreman commands.

House looks back at his feet. Concentrates. This task is easier. Less draining. His toes don't wiggle as fast as they could, but he's getting tired.

"Good. Now the left foot."

Left-right orientation. Muscle control.

"Good."

Flips the blanket back over his feet. Moves more slowly. Sits on the bed. Offers two fingers on each hand. House takes them.

"Squeeze."

Concentrates. Squeezes.

"Tighter."

Tighter.

"Okay," Foreman says. "Good."

Lets go. Hands down. Tired.

Foreman stands up again. "What's three times six?"

House has nearly had enough. His eyelids are drooping.

"Eighteen," he answers at length. Not that he didn't know immediately. Just tired.

He stares at his feet. Senses Foreman studying him.

"House, you getting tired?"

Blinks.

"Okay, we're almost done." Foreman has a decent bedside manner. Whatever. "Can you name the three objects I asked you to remember?"

House closes his eyes. Thinks. Concentrates.

"Fire truck…flower…hamburger."

That's it, he's done. No more.

"Okay, House, you're doing well," Foreman says. "I'm going to leave you alone so you can rest."

He hears their footsteps as they leave. He knows he's in bad shape. Still in shock, though, and he doesn't care that he's in bad shape.

He stops thinking. Everything is quiet and heavy.

He drifts.


	2. Absence

**Absence**

Wilson wakes with a start, still fully dressed, on his side of the bed. Her note is wedged between his side and the bedspread. He feels powerfully that he isn't alone. Someone else was just in the room with him. Someone's just left…

He blinks rapidly, confused. What day is it? Why's he in his clothes on the bedspread? Where's Amber?

His heart slows as he remembers. He is alone. No one's coming home.

The whole apartment is lit up. He'd come in and lain down on the bed. Exhausted. Then the note in the place she normally slept. He glances around the room and into the living room to make sure no one's broken in.

No. He's alone.

His body relaxes. The adrenaline shot from suddenly waking has faded. He breathes in, holds it, and breathes out. Still exhausted.

He feels like he's been on a bender. His head aches. His throat too. His chest.

He pulls the note out from under his side. It's real. Everything is real. He rolls onto his belly, neck cricking, nose chafing against the stiff pillow sham. The new pillow sham.

He wants to die. Anything so long as he doesn't feel anymore.

The pillow smells like detergent. He can smell himself, that he needs a shower. The apartment smells like home. Theirs. Not distinctly his or hers. He wants to get up and bury himself the clothes she'd worn most recently. Her scent, he worries, is already fading.

But he stays on the bed. The pillow's wet now. Warm tears cool quickly, making the fabric rougher. He can't believe that she's gone. It can't be true. It's not real.

Everything's a blur except her eyes closing, her warm skin cooling, the sudden heaviness of her head.

He wants to stop. To end. To cease.

He must be dreaming. It can't be real.

But her head was heavy and unmoving. She wasn't breathing. He turned off bypass. She's gone.

She can't be gone.

He's asleep. He's dreaming. A nightmare. A horrible, vivid nightmare.

She can't be gone.

--

Cuddy watches the orderlies transfer House to a gurney and wheel him out of the room. He barely stirs during the transfer.

She hasn't seen him this nonresponsive since he woke up nine years ago missing a chunk of thigh muscle. The things she tries to hold together have fallen apart again. There's nothing she can do about it.

She sits in the ICU sleeper chair next to his empty bed. Once Chase had informed her of House's seizure, she'd called the Associate Dean to tell him she'd be using some of those personal days she had stored up. She'd met with him yesterday evening while House was still in a coma to get him up to speed. All of yesterday morning's appointments she'd canceled before taking House home after the crash. Then yesterday afternoon's appointments when she'd driven him back to the hospital. She has nothing to do now but wait.

She hates waiting.

The chair's leather is warm against her body. She'd been asleep for about three hours. Noise from day shift's arrival had woken her and she'd reviewed the nurse's notations for the hours she'd slept. Stable vitals. Medication administered on time and in correct doses. He'd opened his eyes twice on command and four times spontaneously, but he hadn't made eye contact or responded to questions by blinking, moving, or speaking. Since the Mental Status Exam Foreman had given him, he'd dropped down to a ten on the GCS: spontaneous eye-opening and localizing response to pain but no verbal response.

She shakes her head, folding her knees up in the chair again. Not only the intracranial bleed, seizure, and skull fracture, but another cardiac arrest. He'd stopped breathing for about a minute; no pulse for thirty seconds. The heart MRI she'd tacked on after the initial head CT revealed a miniscule amount of damage. He was lucky. Three cardiac arrests in two years; the damage he'd done to his heart was less severe than she'd expected.

God. Four cardiac arrests in less than a decade. He has five lives left. How else will he die?

Cuddy massages her forehead. He's too much for one person to deal with. How did Wilson manage to do it?

Poor Wilson.

She'd waited for him outside Amber's room, followed him to his office, and sat with him for something like an hour. She's not sure how long it was. Eventually, he'd thanked her for being there. She'd told him she and Foreman would take care of everything on their end. That she'd call him tomorrow and tell him anything he needed (or wanted) to know. He'd asked about House. Once he and Chase had stabilized House and paged her and Foreman, he'd left. She'd been a little surprised when he asked. Hadn't expected him to. She updated him: the bleed, the worsened fracture, a six on the GCS. Once she'd been sure Wilson was as okay as he was going to get, she'd returned to House.

She sighs. She can't tell yet if House has suffered any lasting brain damage. Foreman couldn't tell either. It's too early. But his slipping from awake and alert to a ten on the GCS worries her.

She needs to see the CT. The staff should have him prepped by now. She unfolds her knees, slips on her shoes, and stands carefully. Her blood pressure dips, reminding her she needs to eat something and sleep more. She tells herself she will once she sees the results.

She straightens her clothes—no luxury of appearing tired for the Dean—and heads for radiology.


	3. Move

Recommended accompaniment: Miles Davis, "Move"

**Move**

He's aware of people and movement. Voices. Low tones. No one's excited. Hands and instruments touch him. He hears snatches of conversations, sometimes questions directed at him. His eyes flutter: moving forms, florescent lights, blurs.

But he can't wake up.

He's restless. He doesn't want to wake up. He's got to move, though. Hands turn him one way. He turns back. Hands turn him again. He tries to kick and grab. Tries to tell them to go away.

He hears moaning. Low. Plaintive. Broken. The way he feels.

He hears the word 'combative.' Hears requests to stay still.

_Stop moving Dr. House You'll hurt yourself. _

…

_Dr. House You're okay You're in the hospital You have a skull fracture You need to stay still._

He has to move. The voice doesn't understand. He must move.

_You need to stay still. _

_Dr. House_.

He has to move. There is no reason. He doesn't need a reason. He simply must.

_You'll hurt yourself._

And the things on and in his body have to go. Hard white boxy thing on one of his fingers. That one's easy. Slips right off.

Itchy sharp thing on the back of his hand. Something grabs him when he reaches for that. 'No,' he says, 'it's gotta go.'

_Nooooooogn._ Low and lengthy. Groaning.

_Dr. House please be still You need to leave the monitors alone They tell us how you're doing._

Uncomfortable thing in his urethra. Bulky thing around his waist and between his legs. His balls sweaty and itchy. Can't adjust them. Uncomfortable sensation. Something's in the way of his hands.

Itchy things on his chest. Every time he reaches for one, something stops him from getting it.

_Dr. House You're in the hospital You need to stay still. _

…

_I know you don't like the wires and tubes but they have to stay in place because they tell us how you're doing. _

A middle-aged woman's face, bosom, arms, hands. Purple-pink scrubs. Her fleshy white face blurs. The too-bright overhead lights sting his eyes. Flash. She blurs in their place.

Nghh. Ooaagn. He slaps at the lights, her face. Leave me alone. Gotta get comfortable.

_Dr. House You have a head injury that's making you restless but I need you to stay still._

She doesn't understand. He must move. Moving makes his head hurt but he has to move. He's uncomfortable. Everything is uncomfortable.

_You need to be still_.

The things on his chest itch. His hand finds a wire and pulls. His hand's arrested, a pressure on his ribs.

_That has to stay on Dr. House._

His head hurts. He wants to be on his side. Nothing stops him from kicking and rolling. There.

Breathes.

Breathes.

No.

Move.

He rolls. Must turn to his other side.

Wants the itchy things off of his chest. He grabs.

Purple-pink flash and blur. Hands stop him from getting the itchy thing but help him roll onto his side.

Breathes.

No. Not comfortable. Must move. Moving hurts. Can't get comfortable.

A high, broken whine.

_It's okay Dr. House I know you're not comfortable but you're okay_.

No. Can't get right.

So frustrated. His face is wet. Purple-pink blurs underwater. He swipes at the wetness. Go away. Leave me alone. I'm tired.

Fleshy hands stop his. Something soft dabs his face.

_Dr. House You're in the hospital You have a skull fracture Your blood pressure and heart rate are too high, and your respirations are too fast You're getting morphine and diazepam right now to relax you You should feel better soon._

His head itches. Above his right ear. Hurts and itches. He's got to scratch it.

He reaches, touches his head to scratch. A hand grabs his wrist.

Uhhhhhnn. No. Leave me alone. It itches.

He has to do something.

_It's okay Shhh You're okay_.

He tries rubbing his head against the pillow. Hurts his neck. Throbs his head.

Uhhhhn.

Quieter.

Still itches. Not as bad. His face wet. Dabbing his face.

_Shhhh It's okay You're okay_.

He reaches to scratch again but his arm moves slowly. Heavy arm. Can't lift. Slowly moving. It stops and falls back against his side.

The sounds stop. Blurring flashes stop. He wants to move but he can't.

Wants to move… Wants…

No, not anymore.

Still now. Stay still.

Still and calm. Quiet. Shh.

Shh.


	4. Relay

**Relay**

When she returns from breakfast, Cuddy's disappointed to hear that House had to be sedated. She isn't surprised—just disappointed. He'd had such a good night. His morning CT had confirmed that the bleeding had stopped. Now he's regressing: an eleven on the GCS ten minutes ago.

"House?" she says tentatively as she approaches him. She lays a hand on his.

He stirs, shifting arms and legs uncomfortably, tossing his head a few times, and mumbles, "Sorry…shouldn't be…don't…" His eyes flutter but don't open. Slow, shallow, medicated breathing replaces the restlessness movement almost as soon as it starts.

She smiles sadly. Why does he do these things to himself?

"House, I'm back," she tells him. It's important to let semi-conscious patients know who's with them and what's happening around them. "I'll be here if you need me."

He stirs again, moves his arms and legs again, and opens his mouth like he wants to speak. She can see his eyes shuttling back and forth beneath their lids. He won't stay under long.

Cuddy squeezes his hand and settles in the chair next to him. The ICU's quiet: the beds flanking House's still unoccupied, day shift dug in for the next eleven hours. She's full and sleepy.

A nurse enters to record House's vitals, waking her accidently, then she's out.

--

An hour later, Chase's gentle hand on her shoulder wakes her.

Cuddy blinks at him tiredly for a moment before she understands. He's the surgeon. This is his follow-up on the patient. And maybe he's something else to House. Close to a friend. She remembers hearing he went bowling with House not too long ago.

Chase had woken her only as a courtesy, and he's already busy with House.

"House, it's Chase," he says professionally. "I'm here to check your incision."

House mumbles and shifts, more loudly and violently this time. Cuddy stands, dons shoes, and puts her hand out for the chart Chase has.

"Still not responding," Chase says to himself. "Temp's elevated."

Cuddy nods, examining the nurse's notes. Two degree temperature increase over the last hour. Administered 500 mg acetaminophen ten minutes ago. Cuddy frowns. He's on amipcillin to prevent a urinary tract infection. It's only a moderate spectrum antibiotic, but that doesn't make the fever any less strange. He's trending toward tachycardia and hypertension, she's noticed. Probably an autonomic reaction.

Chase bends closer. "House, if you can hear me, I need you to wake up."

Cuddy's eyes meet Chase's. Worried.

House mumbles, his eyes fluttering, but he doesn't wake more than that.

"That's good," Chase encourages. "Just a little more. I need you to open your eyes for me."

House opens his eyes, blinks blankly. Cuddy doesn't see much awareness in them.

"Hi, House," Chase says smiling. "Can you blink if you understand what I'm saying?"

House stares dully at Chase and blinks.

"I know you're not feeling great right now," Chase tells him. "You're running a low-grade fever. It's probably an autonomic reaction to the head injury, but we're going to check everything out. I'm going to start by checking the incision."

House continues to stare dully, as though Chase is the least interesting person he's ever encountered.

"If you have any questions, blink," Chase instructs.

House stares. Nothing.

"Go back to sleep," Cuddy says.

House's eyes track slowly to her. She sees a glimmer of comprehension before he closes his eyes and relaxes.

She and Chase exchange another glance. Better, but not out of the woods.

Chase begins peeling away the dressing on House's head, speaking softly to him, and Cuddy writes an order for a full work-up to rule out infection and other autonomic syndromes. She and Chase came to the same diagnosis without discussing it, though, and that consensus probably bodes well. Not in House's world, of course, but House can be a normal patient and still be an abnormal person. Consensus has a strong statistical advantage in the normal world. It's probably autonomic dysfunction syndrome. Not uncommon, and if they can control his vitals, not very dangerous.

"Incision site's clean," Chase reports. Cuddy nods. One possibility down. Several others to go.

Chase motions her toward the foot of the bed.

"I can stay with him for a while if you'd like to get some rest somewhere quieter," Chase offers.

Cuddy's eyebrow leaps. "Surgery gives you that much free time?"

Chase smiles slightly. "I requested the morning off," he answers.

Cuddy looks to House for a moment. He's sleeping. His heart rate and blood pressure are elevated given the medication he's on. He's restless, grimacing. But she can't do anything more for him until she's had some sleep. Chase looks much more rested.

She looks back to Chase. "Thanks," she says. "But page me when the lab results arrive."

"Of course," Chase replies.

Cuddy walks House's chart to the nurse's station, ensures the labs are ordered correctly, and trudges toward her office to the couch that waits there.

--

Chase busies himself looking for infection before he draws the labs. He checks the stitches in House's scalp. Clean. The IV site. Clean. Runs a quick physical for other sites of inflammation. Nothing. He gathers the supplies he'll need to draw blood and collect a urine sample. All the while his mind is elsewhere.

He remembers the shock of seeing House get shot two years ago. The confusion. He and Cameron had stabilized House while Foreman called security. He remembers she'd pressed both hands against the neck wound while he'd examined the abdomen. Quick transfer to a gurney, rush to the ER. Cameron told him later, half-jokingly, that he'd been so bossy the whole time. Well. He _was_ the intensivist.

He'd been so stunned after the shooting: watching the surgery, checking on House in the ICU. That bloodstained carpet. But after a year of watching House continue to self-destruct—the blow of regaining and lose again full use of his leg, Chase realized, was hard to absorb, but House had no cause to punch him over a diagnosis; then the debacle with the detective House wouldn't leave alone, nearly going to jail and taking everyone else with him, detox and rehab in the middle of all that; and then the last straw, followed by Chase's move to the relative quiet of working in surgery—Chase is inured to the things House does to himself and others. He's learned to stay out of the way.

House looks sick right now, yes, and drilling a hole into his skull less than twenty-four hours after he sustained a skull fracture was pure insanity, but Chase has successfully compartmentalized House. He'd performed hypnosis professionally and watched with detachment as House had relived the bus crash during surgery. He'd done his job when House had seized. He'd noted that Wilson was having serious problems compartmentalizing. Whatever's going on between the two of them, he's wise enough to stay out of it. He'll do his job and get out of the way. That's the only workable approach to House he knows.

"Okay, House," Chase says. "I'm going to draw some blood. You'll feel pressure on your upper arm and then a slight pinch. Try to stay still. I'm going to start now."

He ties the tourniquet and finds a vein. House has never given him trouble in the past with a blood draw.

House really isn't the bad guy he wants people to think he is. Chase respects him for always putting his patient first. If Chase didn't believe House did good things, he wouldn't be caring for him right now. Deep brain stimulation, though an utterly mad idea, had been a good thing for Wilson and Amber.

Not such a good thing for House, he thinks as he watches a vial fill with House's blood. But House is oddly selfless at times.

Chase pushes those thoughts away. He's already made his peace with House. Mentally, he shoves House back in his compartment.

Compartmentalizing. It's the only way to stay sane as a trauma surgeon. Chase has already compartmentalized Amber's death. That one wasn't hard. He didn't know her.

The whole thing has really affected Foreman, though. It had been Cameron's idea to meet at the pub last night to decompress. Foreman needed it. He'd hidden it well, but they could both tell he was worried about the team and worried about House. Great idea Cameron had had. She was brilliant. He feels warm and bright when he thinks about her. They'd sat on the couch last night and talked for half an hour about everything that had happened. Gotten everything out in the open. He'd slept well last night.

She'd been the one who suggested he ask for the morning off, knowing in that way she does that Cuddy would stay and Foreman would go back after leaving the pub, and that they'd both need someone to relieve them. When the ER needed her, she had to be there, she'd argued, whereas he could get a replacement for half a day. He hadn't needed much convincing. He still wasn't entirely comfortable with her being alone with House. Didn't trust House, that was it. Easier not to trust House than her.

He snaps off the tourniquet, tapes cotton into the crook of House's arm, and bends it to staunch the wound. Not that there'll be any trouble with that, he knows, because House still has a clotting agent in his system, but he does it anyway.

"All done, House," he says.

House stirs, mumbles, winces, shifts his limbs. Chase doesn't attempt to wake him. He needs to rest. Chase watches his heart rate and BP climb, then fall as he settles. His temp's dropped two tenths of a degree. Acetaminophen's working. Chase nods to himself.

He sets the blood aside and preps for the urine sample.

This morning's CT had looked much better. No more bleeding. Intracranial pressure within normal ranges. Still a nasty fracture, though. Deep brain stimulation was _insane_.

But effective. And that's what matters to House. Chase stops his thoughts, pushes House back to the compartment. He's here to help with the medicine. Nothing else.

A nurse enters to record House's vitals. Chase stays out of the way, collecting urine from the cath bag.

No one speaks to House, but their presence must annoy him because he becomes agitated. Vitals spiking. Talking, moving. Chase and the nurse exchange a glance. What set this off?

"It's okay, House," Chase says in a calm, authoritative tone. "We're looking after you. Calm down and rest."

House complies, quieting, his tightened face smoothing. His vitals drop to more acceptable levels.

"That's better," Chase encourages. "You're all right."

He hands the fluids for the lab to the nurse and goes to the side of the bay to wash his hands. Cuddy wants an LP to rule out viral meningitis, but he's not comfortable conducting that procedure on such a restless patient. It can wait a little while.

House's heart rate and BP are up again when he comes back. House moves restlessly in the bed. Chase nods to himself. Waiting on the LP is the right decision.

Chase places a hand on House's. "It's all right, I'm here," he says. "We're taking care of you. It's okay."

House calms. His vitals drop.

Chase senses the pattern. He pulls the oversized chair closer to the bed so he can keep a hand on House's and monitor his vitals. He hopes the contact, hand on hand, will keep House calm, but he's prepared to reassure House again and again.

Even House can become confused and upset. For all he tries to deny it, he's human.

That's no surprise to Chase.

--

Foreman sees Chase talking to House through the glass wall. House appears to be asleep. But Foreman's seen House's chart. He'd been there earlier in the morning when House had been heading toward a hypertensive crisis; he'd ordered the morphine-diazepam cocktail that had stabilized House. He's here now because that cocktail should be wearing off and he wants to assess House's mental status again. House isn't asleep. Not fully.

Foreman presses a hand to his eyes. Between caring for House, acting as attending for Amber, and dealing with the team, he hasn't had much time to sleep. When he has slept, he hasn't slept well. Too much to process. He's happy to see Chase in with House. Cuddy must be off resting. He'd told Taub, Kutner, and Hadley he didn't want them to come in—at all, really—before ten. He hasn't seen them yet. As it should be.

House starts thrashing inside the room. Foreman's heart jumps before his trained eye recognizes the erratic movement as restlessness. Not a seizure.

Time to go in. House may need light sedation again; if he does, Foreman wants to get it to him as quickly as possible. His CT may have looked good, but he can undo any progress he's made with one hypertensive crisis.

"Calm down, you're okay, House, you're in the hospital," Chase says, gently restraining House's hands.

Chase looks up at Foreman. "Keeps trying to remove the leads," he says with a nod at House's chest.

"He did that earlier," Foreman replies. Then to House, "House, this is Foreman. You've got to settle down. We're taking care of you."

House's face is contorted. He tosses his head, "No, no, no, don't, stop—"

"House, you're okay, you're in the hospital," Chase says clearly and calmly.

Foreman watches his heart rate climb. 150. 160. His blood pressure's nearing the danger zone for a brain injury.

"House, we're going to have to sedate you if you don't calm down," Foreman says.

He grabs House's arm when House reaches for the EKG wires. House is stronger than he should be. He's not waking up.

Foreman orders the same sedative cocktail, indicating that Chase get it.

"House, you're going to herniate if you don't relax," Foreman says. "You're okay. We're not going to hurt you. You have to calm down, though. Your blood pressure's too high." Foreman recites the numbers. "You know that's too high. Calm down, okay?"

House stops resisting so violently, but his vitals don't drop to normal levels. He's still talking, fidgeting, shaking his head. He's crying, too, Foreman realizes.

Foreman speaks to him, trying to calm him, mentally urging Chase to hurry up. House has been hypertensive for three minutes by his estimation. That's too long. He's flushed and sweating.

Chase returns and they watch House's vitals descend over a long two minutes to the low end of normal range.

Foreman breathes for the first time since he's been in the room. Chase shares the same weary expression.

Foreman motions Chase to the end of the bed. "How long have you been here?" he asks, noticing the sweat stains on Chase's scrub top.

Chase consults the monitor for the time. "About an hour."

Foreman shakes his head. "Was he ever that bad?"

"No," Chase says with a tired sigh. "He's been getting close to it for about fifteen minutes, but I was always able to talk him down."

"He say anything that made sense?" Foreman questions.

"Not much," Chase answers. "Mentioned Amber a few times, and Stacy and Wilson, but most of it was the same as what you heard."

Foreman nods. Disorientation, reliving negative moments—neither is abnormal with a severe brain injury. House is having a bad morning like any other patient.

"I can take over," Foreman offers, glancing again at Chase's somewhat disheveled appearance.

"You sure?" Chase asks. "Because I can stay. Hard part's over."

Foreman shakes his head. "I want to check his reflexes. But if you could come back in half an hour…?"

"Sure," Chase says easily.

"Thanks."

It's like old times again, negotiating patient-sitting duty. Except he likes Chase now.

"I'll check on the labs, too," Chase volunteers. "Should be done by now."

Foreman nods his thanks and looks back to House as Chase leaves. Vitals steady. Normal range. His skin's turning pale again. His slack face confirms the sedative effect.

Foreman moves the blanket and takes House's foot to begin checking his reflexes.

He keeps his mind on the medicine. When he confirms that the House he knows is still alive, he'll let himself think about everything that's happened. But not now. Now he does his job—just that, nothing else.

--

Cuddy's page wakes her from a light, troubled sleep. She reaches the unit a few minutes after the labs.

Foreman's in with him puzzling over the report.

"Looks like paroxysmal autonomic instability with dystonia," he says, passing her the report. "Autonomic dysfunction syndrome."

Cuddy nods quickly and scans the report herself. White count's barely elevated—a response to the scalp laceration—rules out infection. Thyroid panel clean. Creatine kinase and troponin levels consistent with yesterday's cardiac arrest, not indicative of any other syndrome. Still waiting on cultures, but his white count doesn't indicate infection.

"No lumbar puncture?" Cuddy asks.

"He was too restless," Foreman answers. "Chase didn't want to risk it."

Cuddy glances from House, who's still and quiet, to Foreman. Foreman explains Chase's hour with House, having to sedate him again.

She nods. "We should do it now while he's out."

Foreman doesn't need to be told. He's already moving to set up for it.

Cuddy uses the time to catch up on House's chart. He's not having the best day. Her lip curls a little, wryly, at the irony of a lumbar puncture to rule out viral meningitis when House had caused a minor meningitis scare in the ER some thirty-six hours ago. He would appreciate it, she thinks. Hopes. She's still not sure that he's in there.

A nurse helps the two of them turn him and hold him while Foreman conducts the procedure. House doesn't move when Foreman inserts the needle. She watches as clear spinal fluid drips into the container. Appears to be negative. Good.

She holds his shoulder while Foreman cleans up. He feels too warm to her and she consults the monitor. His temperature's up again around 100 degrees, though the acetaminophen's still working. She orders another 500 milligrams when Foreman's done. They leave House on his side. The nurse returns with the medication and pillows to keep him in place.

Cuddy's satisfied that House is physically stable, but she wants him to wake up and speak again. She's worried he won't rebound for this one. She also knows he needs time to sort things out.

Okay. She doesn't want to wait, but she can give him time. She needs time, too, she realizes.

She leaves him in Foreman's capable hands with an order to page her if his condition changes. She drifts down to the parking garage. She has another visit to pay.


	5. Silence

**Silence**

Cuddy hesitates before she knocks, thinking he might be asleep. She's wrestled with that thought all the way over—and the thought that he might want to be alone. But she keeps coming back to the fact that Wilson has been alone so far, probably will be alone in the near future, and shouldn't be alone all the time.

Reassured, she knocks.

She waits. Nothing. She's debating whether she'll knock again—maybe he really is asleep—when she hears movement inside. Hears him stop, then the metallic noise of a dead bolt turning.

The door opens all of a foot. His eyes are ghostly-hollow. Red. He doesn't look like he's slept. Hasn't even taken off his clothes. She realizes she hasn't either, but that's not the point.

"Hi," Cuddy says reticently. She holds up the plastic bag she's brought. Soup and sandwiches. "Can I come in for a little while?"

"Yeah," he says in a voice that skips like an adolescent's. He pulls the door open wider and moves.

She's never been to this apartment. Their apartment. She'd had to look the address up in Amber's personnel file. She steps inside. It's domestic. Lived-in. She notices the way Wilson navigates the room: it's his apartment. His lived-in space.

"I don't have much to drink," he begins, shoulders slumped as he moves toward the kitchen. "Water—"

"Water would be great," Cuddy answers.

Wilson fills two glasses with water and motions to the small kitchen table. Cuddy unpacks the food. She doesn't know what to do or say, but this ritual is so ancient it seems to be taking care of itself.

"Foreman called me," Wilson says, delivering the water and sitting. He sounds aimless when he speaks. He looks aimless, too, when he moves. Purposeless. He avoids eye contact.

"Wanted to know if I had a funeral home in mind." Wilson barks a tired, mirthless laugh. "I don't even know if she wanted to be buried or cremated."

"Buried," Cuddy answers. "It's in her will."

She slides a stapled photocopy closer to him. He hadn't noticed it. He hasn't noticed the food either.

She watches him read.

"I was wondering if she'd updated it," he says to himself.

He reads in silence for a few moments, flipping the pages.

"Is this why you're here?" he asks and those hollow eyes come up to meet hers.

"That, and I thought you might be hungry," Cuddy says. She tries to smile.

Wilson stares at the food as though he's never seen food before. As though he's afraid it's a threat to him. Slowly, he reaches for a plastic spoon and stirs the soup container closest to him. He tests it. Very cautious. He must approve, Cuddy thinks, because he keeps eating while he turns his attention back to the will.

"Thanks," he says absently.

Cuddy picks up a spoon and joins him. She's not very hungry but she needs to eat. She imagines he's in a similar position.

"I wasn't sure what she wanted," he begins, indicating that the document has answered his questions.

Wilson reads and re-reads. They both eat. The apartment is so still and quiet. She doesn't know how he's handling this, but she remembers the same absolute silence pervading her house after she'd miscarried. No one there to talk to. She didn't want to talk at first, but eventually she'd needed to. House had been a big help there, she thinks sarcastically. If she's all Wilson's got right now—and that seems to be the case—she won't make him suffer like she's had to. It's not human to do that to another person. She resolves to come back tonight with dinner.

"I don't know what to do with all her stuff," Wilson says. His eyes are on the table in front of him. He's not talking to Cuddy.

Cuddy hears nothing but the hum of the refrigerator between his words. Such a quiet complex. Midday. Everyone's at work. Alive, living, working. No noise from traffic outside. Well-insulated building. Her own breathing makes too much noise. Swallowing soup sounds rude.

Wilson abandons his spoon. "I keep thinking she's going to come home or call me, and then I remember, and I wonder what I should do with her stuff." His eyes move to the will. "She doesn't say."

Cuddy's surprised he's talking so much. He needs someone to listen, she realizes. She can do that.

He places his hands palms down on the table as though he's about to push back from it. "She didn't keep in touch with her parents," he continues. "I don't have their number. It's not in her cell phone."

Cuddy didn't see their contact info in her personnel file either. Wilson was her contact person. Prior to that, no one had been listed.

"They weren't speaking to each other," he says. "She didn't like to talk about them. Always changed the subject." He looks up at Cuddy again. "I don't even know their names."

Cuddy reaches for one of his hands and covers it with hers. "Sounds like she didn't want them in her life."

Wilson looks stupidly at Cuddy's hand on his. Self-conscious, afraid she's made a mistake, Cuddy squeezes his hand and releases it.

"Yeah," Wilson says absently. "I guess they don't matter."

He stares at the table. He's withdrawn into himself again.

Cuddy wishes she hadn't said anything. Just let him talk, she thinks. She'll do that tonight. He looks a little better than she'd expected, though. That's good.

She gets up. "I'm going to put this in the refrigerator," she says.

He nods, though she's not sure he heard what she said.

She puts everything away and returns to the table. "Is there anything I can get you?" she asks uncertainly.

Wilson shakes his head slowly. He's somewhere inside himself.

"Okay," Cuddy says. "I'll come by again tonight if that's okay."

He nods. Slowly. Absently. He's not coming out.

She lets herself out, pleased that he's talking but berating herself for interrupting him. He would have gone on, she thinks. Tonight, she'll let him talk until he notices he's not alone.

--

Wilson sits at the kitchen table with the taste of broccoli cheddar soup in his mouth. She never wanted to talk about her parents. Didn't talk much about friends. Didn't have any she'd introduced him to.

She'd been alone. He's always known that, but with no one to call on her behalf—no relatives, no friends—the starkness of her existence begins to hurt him. She was such a great person, he thinks, why didn't more people around her understand that?

He puzzles over this new turn in his thinking. Was it that she didn't want to get close to many people? He thinks that's part of it. She's so fiercely independent, so competitive. Nothing but the best would do for her. Nothing but absolute loyalty. That's not too much to ask, he thinks. She's beautiful and smart and funny and witty. Who wouldn't want to know her? Her smiling face appears before him. She's just—great. Just wonderful.

His thoughts skip.

She _was _great. _Was_ wonderful.

He's thinking in present tense again. Let go of them, he'd advise his patients' families. Let them go.

It's not the same thing. He had no warning. No time to adjust.

He doesn't want to stop thinking about her in present tense.

A noise upstairs brings him back to the real present. He realizes Cuddy's gone. When had she left? It doesn't matter.

It was nice of her to come by and bring the will. He feels better having it in front of him. Her last directive. A piece of her. Her will. Her desire.

He closes his eyes, feeling himself begin to shake because he's overwhelmed by the string of thoughts he's been avoiding all morning, all night, all afternoon yesterday. That she won't ever desire anything again or come home to him or call him or tease him or touch him.

He can't do this.

He feels tears on his face again. He hates himself for crying. It's so self-indulgent. He wipes his face with a dirty sleeve. He's useless. Useless.

The day yawns before him. Empty.

His face is wet again. He wants to fold his arms on the table and rest his head on them. Let the tears pool there. But he doesn't want to move.

The tears drip off his face. He can't fix this. He has no power, no control. He's just taking up space. Useless and empty.

Except for his ragged breathing, the apartment is silent.


	6. Exception

**Exception**

House wakes suddenly, gasping, heart surging, surprised. Two nurses moving his left leg look worried for half a second, then break into smiles.

An odd out-of-body sensation left over from sleep lingers for a moment before he crashes into himself.

Heavy. Stiff. Sore.

His back hurts, lumbar region, dull, constant pain.

LP?

He remembers Chase mentioning fever, autonomic dysfunction syndrome.

Yeah, LP. Explains the sore back.

His leg's a menace. His head pounds. Something stinks.

Something's warm, wet, and squishy near his—oh. He realizes why two pairs of hands are positioning his left leg so his foot's on the mattress.

Eww.

Disgusting.

He relaxes from the tense posture he'd assumed on waking and sighs. It's a side effect of most of the medication he's on. That doesn't make it any less gross.

He'd be embarrassed, but he's been here before. The infarction, the ketamine treatment. Bedridden. His body doesn't stop living just because he might be dying.

"Hi, Dr. House," one of them says.

_Right back at ya_, he thinks. There's nothing he likes more to do than chitchat while he's sitting in his own—_oww_. He hisses and winces. They're moving his right leg.

Well. Now he knows the shock's worn off. He can feel his leg and everything else in all its glory.

"Does your leg hurt?" one asks. She's marginally more attractive than the other one, so he'll call her the attractive one.

"It always hurts," he answers. His voice is ridiculously raspy. He tries to swallow some saliva, but his mouth is too dry.

"You're due for more morphine in an hour," the not-as-attractive one says. "Do you need it now?"

Yes, he wants to say. No.

Yes because his leg hurts and morphine-induced constipation would be nice. No because he doesn't want them to abandon this task to get it.

He settles on "Not right now."

They smile. They understand.

He tilts his head up and lifts his eyes to the intersection of the glass wall and the ceiling. He may not be embarrassed but he can't avoid feeling humiliated. He's not going to look if he doesn't have to.

He shuts everything out. Sound, smell, everything. He wonders what time it is. He doesn't think he's lost a day, just hours, but he would like some clue about the time. No windows in this ward. He can't twist his neck far enough to see the monitor he knows hovers behind him. Not without moving his torso and he's not going to move it.

His back's sore. The LP. He doesn't remember it. He remembers snatches of Chase and Foreman talking to him, but no needle biting into his spinal cord. Threats of sedation. He must've been out while they did it.

He doesn't like being sedated, but he understands why it was necessary. Hypertension. He couldn't wake up, couldn't escape the dreams.

He remembers seeing Chase above him and wanting to speak, struggling to speak, but a tumor had grown on his tongue, rock-hard and the size of a jawbreaker. All he could was make noises around it. He remembers the terror of not being able to communicate. Chase telling him _calm down, calm down_, not knowing about the enormous tumor. House knows it's not real, that he was dreaming, but remembering that terror makes him never want to close his eyes again.

He can't stop remembering.

These dreams were about as bad as the hallucinations produced by ketamine. Wilson had told him later that he'd hallucinated for hours. That is, they'd been able to tell he'd hallucinated for hours. He'd really been hallucinating for days, he'd concluded, no matter what Wilson said.

His thoughts roll away.

Wilson.

He wants to forget everything about Wilson. Amber's bad, she kept appearing between Chase and Foreman, smiling at him, challenging him, following him onto the bus, swallowing handfuls of amantadine—he remembers he couldn't speak because his mouth was stuffed with Vicodin and amantadine and physostigmine, and he couldn't swallow any of the pills or spit them out or— She was bad, but Wilson was much worse.

Wilson was silent and angry. Wouldn't speak to him. Just those eyes full of hatred.

He remembers watching himself getting drunker and drunker while Wilson sat on the bar stool next to him and stared. And inevitably he saw himself take the phone from the bartender and dial Wilson's number, and inevitably she came to get him, and she downed a Cosmo and sneezed, and he watched himself leave and Wilson stare at him and Amber leaving, Wilson not saying anything, not intervening, not stopping her. And he wants to stop himself, even now, wants to grab his dream self's shoulder and shake him, to grab her and keep her from following his dream self, but he can't move. He'd twisted and turned but he couldn't move to stop it. Wires and tubes restrained him. Couldn't get free. Couldn't move.

And Stacy.

Stacy never leaves him alone. She's there. Telling him he's wrecked another relationship. That he's such a selfish bastard. That God she loves him. He can't make her go away.

He remembers he couldn't speak because his mouth was full of extracted thigh muscle. Chewy like gum. Sticking in his mouth like peanut butter. The taste of blood and copper-tinged fear. Stacy telling him it's just a damn leg.

_It's just a damn leg_.

"Dr. House?"

He blinks and looks at them. Remembering the dreams makes his skin crawl.

"Would you like to help?" the attractive one twitters.

He knows what that means: would you like to clean your genitals and keep them out of the way? He lifts his arm to take the baby wipe offered to him. Absolutely, he'd rather do this himself.

Those dreams. They're worse than this.

He cleans expertly, noticing the unhealthy color he's produced. Two baby wipes. Three. He's done. He palms his genitals and lifts. He fades into himself again.

Where did the time go earlier? This is usually the first thing they ask. Couldn't have been more than twenty seconds between asking about his leg and asking him to help. How long had they been trying to get his attention?

He should be worried. He should've been worried earlier when his vision was blurry and tracking objects made him dizzy and he couldn't wake up. But he feels so normal. He's reticent, he knows, and the acerbic comments haven't been flowing to his tongue, but near-death experiences do this to him. He can feel and move and think and remember. He's okay.

He can remember. He can't forget. Not yesterday or the day before or last month. Not Stacy. Not— He shivers involuntarily. Not Dad either.

He remembers dreaming an ice bath in the sensory depravation tub. Dad's stern face. He remembers he'd gotten too hypothermic to move when their faces had appeared above him—Cuddy, Wilson, Thirteen, Foreman, Stacy, Dad, Amber—disapproving because he's got a massive erection because he'd been dreaming about Cuddy strip-teasing and he can't move his arms to cover himself and Dad's silent and angry like Wilson, just stares, won't speak, and Amber makes it worse by licking her lips seductively but he can't move. His mouth is stuffed with his own extracted flesh and muscle.

He wants to vomit.

Dream nausea stimulates real nausea. Another side effect. His arm shakes. They're almost done, he knows, from the sensation of alcohol evaporating from his skin.

The nausea travels. Gurgles. Lower. Blood drains from his face.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he says automatically.

They're several steps ahead of him, he realizes, when he blinks back to the present. They must've heard the gurgling. They're experienced.

He harbors no fantasies of getting up and walking down the hall to the real bathroom. He's been here before, too. Plenty of drugs cause this. He clinches. Uses his arms to pull himself into a sitting position, gripping the rails. His gut cramps, spasms.

Hurry.

Hurry.

Faster.

He grits his teeth. He knows he's breathing too fast when he sees the nurse who stayed eyeing the monitor. He's not cool enough to stop himself from panicking—stuck on a bed, naked, a runny, mushy mess knocking on the door.

_Hurry_.

She's back, they help him get situated on the stainless steel receptacle, and he silently pleads with them, his eyes wild, promising he'll quit panicking if they'll give him the illusion of privacy.

They understand. They back away, look busy. He squeezes the bed rails, teeth gritted, and lets go.

He's disgusted, but he feels so good, so much better, he can breathe again, even if it's only to pant. So much better.

But it doesn't last, that good feeling. Not when his gut's coming apart. He's lightheaded, shaking. Flushed from the chest up. He grips the rails with everything he's got. He must keep his balance.

Leg hurts. Gut's being ripped to pieces. He's dizzy from breathing too fast, from relief, from pain in his gut. His head hammers to the beat of his heart. Too fast.

He tries to calm down. Focus on his hands wrapped around the plastic rails. Breathe slowly.

He winces with every cramp, his face contorting, and every wince makes his head worse. Calm down.

He's not going to herniate over this. Not this.

Finally, he can't go anymore. Nerves urge him to push and he does, but he's got nothing. He's not done—he can feel that he's not done—but that's all for the moment.

The nurses come back. They hold him steady, then help him lean to the left and offer him wads of toilet paper. His arm shakes, but he's intent on cleaning up himself.

"Need some loperamide," he chokes out. Still breathing too harshly.

Once he's satisfied, he goes limp, slumping awkwardly, wincing at a stab from the LP site. The nurses take it away. One nurse does. Whatever. He closes his eyes. He's relieved, exhausted.

He can't summon the energy to wrap the gown around himself. Doesn't care that he's exposed.

He's just feeling normal again when one of them says his name.

He opens his eyes. One has a syringe, the other has a clean gown. How's his leg?, one asks. Does he want that morphine now? He reads the implicit question: Or does he want to change into something cleaner?

Sweat sticks the gown to his back. He's too warm. He feels dirty.

He motions for the gown. The parts of his body that don't hurt tell him how good it feels to move. Shake off that stiffness. He's accustomed to pain. Stiffness he hates. He wants to move. Dreams of not being able to move are too fresh.

He sits up while they disconnect wires and tubes so he can draw his arms through the sleeves. He's got his arms free when he realizes the sheets are dirty too. Easier to change if he's not occupying the bed. He looks to the chair. It entices him. The back support alone would be worth the move.

With gestures and grunts he indicates his desire. They're pleased to see him feeling so much better. Sure, he can sit in the chair, he's just past the mandatory twenty-four bed rest period.

It's complicated, but the three of them get him standing—blood rushes from his head and he feels his knees melting, the nurses' tighten their grip on his slender body, he sucks in air and stays on his feet—and he's gowned and sitting. Less than a minute. Professional.

He's so much more comfortable relaxing against the leather. He wants to moan at how good it feels. He settles for breathing contently, eyes closed, and tossing the gown over his groin so his arms can crisscross there. Rest.

"That's better, huh?"

He blinks at one of the smiling nurses. He lifts his lips in a tiny smile and closes his eyes again.

Much better. Feels good to have real support. Feels so good.

"House."

He starts, eyes popping open.

Foreman looms over him.

He blinks, confused. The bed is made, the nurses gone. A blanket covers his hands and legs.

He's been asleep.

He feels his blood pressure dropping back to normal and he's annoyed with Foreman for startled him, so he glares.

"Hey." Foreman's expression softens. "You're looking better."

"You woke me up to tell me that," House grumbles in his raspy voice, closing his eyes again.

"I woke you up to see if I could wake you up at all," Foreman retorts. "It hasn't been that easy this morning."

House opens an eye. "It's morning?" he asks.

"Noon," Foreman answers.

"Thursday?" House questions.

Foreman nods, clearly pleased that House knows what day it is. House is satisfied, closes his eyes again.

"Bleeding stop?" he asks.

"Yeah." Foreman describes the CT results to him. "Want to see it?"

House shakes his head slightly. He's comfortable for once. He hadn't been dreaming. He wants to go back to that.

"How're you feeling?" Foreman asks.

_What a stupid question_, House thinks, _thought I trained you better than that_. He hates that question because it's imprecise.

He cracks eyes open to glance at Foreman, conveying his thoughts with an expression.

Foreman waits expectantly.

Okay, maybe not conveying his thoughts.

"What'd you want to know?" House asks tiredly.

"Any neurological symptoms," Foreman clarifies.

Numbness, sensation, vision changes, motor problems… The cranial nerves alone take at least twenty minutes to examine.

House blinks up at him. "I'm fine."

Foreman's unconvinced. He crosses his arms.

"You've already tested everything you don't need me conscious for," House says.

Foreman shrugs. Yes.

"And I'm fine."

Foreman shrugs again. Yes.

House runs a dry tongue along a dry palate. "If you're gonna make me talk, get me some water," he says.

Foreman sees the reasoning and moves.

House closes his eyes again. "And some loperamide."

"Already gave you some," Foreman says.

House opens his eyes suspiciously. "How long was I asleep?" He takes the cup Foreman offers him and drinks greedily.

"About half an hour."

His eyes shoot up to Foreman again. _Really? No way._ He finishes the water and takes a deep breath.

"Why'd you wake me up now?" he asks. He'd been sleeping really well. He's even more annoyed that Foreman had interrupted quality sleep.

"You're due for another pain shot in ten minutes," Foreman answers.

House doesn't have to be told that. His body knows.

"I wanted to talk to you," Foreman continues.

House moves an eyebrow slightly to indicate he understands the rationale. Mental assessments, _does he have all his marbles_. He's still annoyed though.

"I don't need any more morphine," he says. "Give me Vicodin."

Foreman's entire head turns into rows of cropland. House rolls his eyes. He's not the junkie Foreman assumes he is. Lurid Vicodin dreams he's used to. Morphine dreams… He can't handle any more of those. He's not going to tell Foreman that, though.

Foreman's skeptical. "You should eat something first," he says.

House stares at him. He isn't hungry. Between the antibiotic and the three or four other nausea-inducing drugs he's on, he doesn't want to eat. But Foreman's expression makes it clear this isn't negotiable.

"I eat, I take my meds, I go the floor," House says. It's more of a question than he wants it to be.

"Your BP stays down for the next four hours," Foreman replies. _Maybe then_, he implies. If nothing else happens.

House nods. He wants to tell Foreman to hurry up with whatever it is he has to eat, but he doesn't have the energy. His eyes close as Foreman leaves.

He wants to go home. He wants a TV and his couch and some liquor. He wants to drink until he can't feel anything and he can sleep without dreaming. He doesn't want to moulder in a hospital bed with too much time to think.

Now that he's still, he's starting to hurt. Nothing abnormal. Just needs his pills.

He does his best to avoid thinking and remain awake until Foreman returns.

Because Wilson's not going to sulk for a few days or a week over this and go back to normal. Because she's dead and somehow he's not. He's about to be snacking on pudding or applesauce and Vicodin. He's cheated death again. Despite physostigmine, despite everything he's done to his brain. Despite knives in electrical outlets and thirty oxycontin with a scotch chaser and psychos with guns and blood clots. And bus crashes.

He lives in that 0.1 percentile he diagnoses. The exception. He can't shake the strange feelings that accompany the thought.

He's not special. No one's special. He wants to believe that. Contrary to the evidence. He wants to believe it.

His head hurts.

He opens his eyes to watch for Foreman. Nurses busy doing nurse things.

He's tired of sitting in the chair now. He wants to lie down on his side. It's not going to happen, not today, he knows. Too risky. Lying down would increase the intracranial pressure, make him herniate.

He still wants to turn, though, so he does. Slowly. The chair is just big enough for him to draw his knees to his chest. He scoots and maneuvers and negotiates his long legs into a space almost too small for him. His leg hates the idea, but his back applauds.

He's adjusting the blanket when Foreman finally returns. House snatches the snack cup from him. Applesauce. He doesn't care. Wedged in the chair, he mouths the gruel-like substance and swallows at a quick pace.

Foreman's amused. "I think that thing reclines," he says.

House doesn't care about that either. The applesauce sits heavily in his stomach. He has to slow down. Puking now would mean IV drugs and a night in the ICU. He stops with a third of the stuff left while Foreman searches for the lever to make the chair recline.

Foreman finds it. "Want this back?" he asks.

House nods and the chair moves. Better for sleeping, but makes it harder to eat. He waits, impatient with his stomach.

Foreman waits, too, observing him openly.

Eventually House shakes his head and holds out the unfinished cup. _I ate most of it_, his body language says.

Foreman puts on a show of grudgingly handing over the Vicodin.

"With water," Foreman says as House shakes out two pills.

House doesn't object. Everything that happens now is an improbability. Why object?

He swallows the pills with a mouthful of water. Done. Time to sleep. He settles back, stretching his legs out and fighting the blanket.

Foreman's not leaving. He's standing there expectantly again.

"What?" House snaps, tired and grumpy.

Foreman doesn't hesitate. "If there's anything you want to talk about—"

"I don't want to talk about it," House grumbles, turning his shoulder in and away from Foreman.

Foreman lingers. Dallies. House is about to snap at him again when he turns for the door.

Finally. House closes his eyes.

He dozes until the Vicodin kicks in. He's not special. Not the exception.

He relaxes into the chair. Sleeps.


	7. Vigilance

**Vigilance**

Cuddy goes home after leaving Wilson. She needs a shower, fresh clothes, and a nap.

She pages Foreman first, though, and when he calls back, she's happy to hear House had been awake, talking, and seemed normal, if subdued. She can hear the suspicion in Foreman's voice when he tells her House requested Vicodin instead of morphine, but she dismisses it. If House wants direct control over his pain medication and he wants to step down to a less potent narcotic, that's fine with her. She agrees that it's strange, but House is always strange. And she's known him longer than Foreman has. She knows he wants to go home. She can't argue with that. As long as he's healthy enough to leave, she doesn't need him taking up a bed in her hospital.

She's relieved. This time yesterday, House had been almost totally nonresponsive and she'd had no idea how long he would remain that way—if he would wake up and whether he'd be able to move and think at all. Now Foreman wants to take him off half the medications he's on, citing House's wish to leave the unit. His approach is cautious; she approves.

She won't acknowledge how apprehensive she'd been. He's okay. That's all that matters.

Foreman also tells her he tried to get House to talk about Amber's death. Big surprise, House didn't want to talk. She remembers Stacy coming to her over and over again while House had been recovering from surgery and relearning to walk, saying he wouldn't talk to her, sometimes wouldn't even acknowledge her presence. House needs time to process major events. Who doesn't?

But Wilson's talking to her. She hopes House might too. She tells Foreman she'll be back in a few hours and hangs up. They've formed an unspoken, informal day-shift/night-shift pact. She doesn't dwell on that.

She's relieved, reassured, happy, almost giddy after talking to Foreman. She unlocks the door to her large, empty house with a sense of victory. And a sense of having dodged yet another bullet. She clings to the sense of victory. He's okay.

As much as she wants normalcy in her life—someone loving, caring, and sane to spend time with, maybe even the child she still thinks about when she can't sleep—House and the enormous organization she runs continually conspire to let her keep putting herself last, as is her tendency. If it were just the hospital, she might be able to have one or two of the things she wants.

Is he worth it?

She pushes the question aside, as she almost always does. But today she has an answer. Like an intern after an egregiously long shift, she's barely slept or eaten for a day and a half, and only now is she coming home to take care of herself. She wouldn't do this for anyone else.

She forces herself not to think through these thoughts. Today is better than yesterday. That's enough.

--

Foreman stares through the glass long after he's done talking to Cuddy. Elbow resting on the counter next to the phone, his eyes take in the sight of his patient sleeping but he stares through the image. He's on standby. Not thinking. It's almost like sleep.

"How's he doing?"

Taub's voice. Foreman blinks, rocketing back to the world, and turns. Where there's Taub, there's Kutner and Hadley. Foreman assumes a professional air.

"Better," he answers, half-turned to them, half-turned toward the glass. "He's sleeping."

Three pairs of eyes regard him with doubt. He's mildly surprised by what appears to be collective disregard.

"You really think it's wise to take him off labetalol and carbamazepine so soon?" Kutner challenges.

Foreman turns fully from the station, squaring his body. Kutner strikes him as amusing most of the time. This is no exception.

"Would I have done it if I didn't think it was wise?" Foreman says. He doesn't add that Cuddy agreed with his assessment. It's his authority they question, not hers.

"Maybe 'wise' isn't the right word," Taub intervenes with a sidelong glance at Kutner. "But he's been borderline hypertensive all day, and that's with additional analgesia and an anxiolytic."

Taub pauses. Foreman always interprets the move as Taub's attempt to appear more rational.

"It just seems sudden," Taub adds.

"House wants to be transferred to the floor," Foreman explains.

He lets them gather what he leaves unspoken: this is the most expedient method of determining whether he's ready.

"Seems like an unnecessary risk," Hadley says quietly.

_House wouldn't think so_. Foreman doesn't say it. He's annoyed that it's his first thought. He settles for a shrug instead.

She doesn't challenge him further. She's subdued, he notes. But she's been subdued since House began diagnosing through the fog of amnesia. Even more so since they found out who the real patient was. He doesn't count that against her, though he knows House does.

"No," Kutner says to Hadley, unhappy with her acquiescence. "This is a bad idea."

Taub's right there next to Kutner, agreeing with the substance of his comment if not the style. "It's too sudden for a brain injury this severe when the patient's been near hypertensive _with_ medication."

"They're titrating down over the next hour," Foreman says, annoyed that he has to reiterate what they've already read in the chart. "I'll be watching him. They'll be watching him." He nods to the nurses. "You can join us."

Taub and Kutner work their jaws back and forth, clearly unhappy but unable to override Foreman or produce a new argument.

Foreman relaxes his posture slightly. "I don't think he's ready to do without it yet," he admits, "but he'll be happy we tried and we'll probably find a more accurate dosage in the process."

Taub and Kutner concede the point by breaking eye contact with him.

"I don't think he'll be happy about anything," Kutner observes wryly, eyes on the floor.

Foreman watches Taub look from him to Hadley. So Taub's noticed Hadley's reticence too. Her eyes have been elsewhere since she first spoke.

Taub fixes him with a meaningful expression. "We'll keep an eye on him," he says and grabs Kutner.

Foreman waits for Hadley to speak after they leave. Whatever it is, she's going to have to make the first move.

At length, Hadley looks up from the floor. "Has he said anything about…"

Foreman's not entirely certain what she means. He settles for a safe answer.

"He said he didn't want to talk about it when I brought it up."

She nods as though she'd known the answer already and drifts toward her colleagues.

Foreman watches her go, struck again by how she can be so similar and dissimilar to Cameron at one time. She's both more and less idealistic. At least she doesn't allow herself to be hurt by House as often.

Foreman scratches his head. Now that three more doctors are watching House, he knows he should get back to the paperwork to discharge Amber's body, but he has as many reservations about lowering House's blood pressure medication as the team does. More reservations, in fact, because this is his field and he knows better than they do what the risks are.

He decides to stay for half an hour. If something's going to go wrong, it will probably go wrong within that time frame.

He hopes nothing does. But he knows better than to place much faith in that hope.

He turns back to the glass and places his elbow where it had been before they'd interrupted him.


	8. Relaxation

**Relaxation**

House sleeps lightly in ten minute snatches. Keeps waking to a nurse adjusting his IV or Taub and Kutner standing near him talking to each other.

Restless, sore, annoyed, he turns from one side to his back to the other side. Repeats. They won't shut up and go away; he can't stay comfortable in one position. He's sure the two phenomena are related.

At one point, his eyes are open and Taub is telling him about his blood pressure and some decision Foreman's made. He blinks tiredly, turns away, and places an arm over his eyes. Too bright in here.

He's not sure he's sleeping at all. Just that there are intervals between the sense of people invading his space and things he sees and hears. If he keeps waking up, it follows he must be in some other state between waking.

He doesn't want to stay awake. Too tired. Sleepy enough to close his eyes when they open. Willful enough to ignore requests that he stay conscious for a moment. He's not going to listen to Taub or Kutner or a nurse.

Eventually he gathers that another patient is occupying the bay to his right. Someone keeps coughing over there. A wet, hacking noise. Too loud. More nurses move around. Low sounds of human suffering that he's sure aren't coming from him.

Can't stay asleep, doesn't want to wake up. He's pissed off. Wants to be home where it's dark and quiet, but he doesn't want to stay awake to complain. Tired. Light hurts his head.

He mumbles when he's wakened: Turn the lights off. Shut up. Go away.

Or just grunts and adjusts his body to stretch anything that's stiff. Tries to keep his arms crossed over his eyes or to lay one over an exposed ear. Shut up. Go away.

"House, would you be more comfortable on the bed?"

It's Kutner. House doesn't open his eyes.

"Mf mr."

Everything seems to happen in seconds, though he's sure time doesn't move that slowly. He has no real sense of time until he starts dreaming.

Thirteen's standing over him with an unreadable expression when she morphs into Wilson. Tired, disgruntled, exasperated Wilson.

"House, I've gotta go home," Wilson whines. "I told her I'd be back an hour ago. She's waiting for me."

House is falling-off-the-barstool drunk, happy and stupid. "No, she's not," he sloshes, "she's with the pool boy."

He's desperately afraid Wilson's going to leave him, but too drunk to figure out how to get him to stay. The bar plays jaunty blues. Dark and smoky. Clack of pool balls.

"_House_—"

His eyes flutter and Thirteen scowls above him. Too bright lights around her. He grunts, turns away, bats a hand, seeks the darkness of the bar.

Wilson scowls. "We don't have a pool."

House waves a hand dismissively. "The pizza delivery guy. Whatever." He belches loudly, pats his chest. "Have another beer," he says. "She's not waiting up."

"She was last time," Wilson says morosely.

It bothers House that Wilson won't sit down. Keeps standing next to him. Too close to him. Looking down.

Fresh beer appears magically in his hand. He drinks like he's pouring beer into a void. No stomach, no bladder. Like he's a life-sized skeleton with an open jaw and beer splattering on the floor after passing comically through his ribcage. He's drunk and amused.

"She's just like your first wife and your second wife," House slurs, new beer in hand.

"Julie loves me," Wilson defends.

House senses Wilson's foot tapping in righteous indignation. To the jaunty blues.

"When I said I wanted to have a real conversation, I meant that we'd both be sober," Wilson adds.

House glances at him, one eye closed, like a winking pirate. "We can both be drunk," he suggests.

"Someone has to drive you home," Wilson retorts. Keys jingle.

The bright light of an oncoming vehicle engulfs him, he tries to raise his arms against it, but _CRASH_—

—he gulps oxygen, adrenaline racing through him, bright lights and voices, his hands restrained. He panics, thrashing frantically, terrified, using all his strength to push the oncoming lights away.

"_House—stop it!—it's okay—you're dreaming—_"

And in an instant he hears Taub, sees flashes of Taub, and stops a fight he's barely aware he'd been a part of.

"That's better," Taub says. "Another forty of labetalol. His blood pressure's—"

"—clear. The Vicodin's cleared your system," the rehab therapist says. She smiles like it's an achievement.

House nods miserably. Then, viciously, turning to Wilson who's appeared out of nowhere in this confidential session, as the therapist dissolves, he yells, "See? I don't need your help or your deal! I can do it myself!"

He seethes. His heart races, burning his chest up. Blood throbs in his ears.

"Have you seen the mark you left on Chase?" Wilson returns, no less angry.

House can't stand Wilson's self-righteous assumption that he isn't in control of himself, and he swings wildly.

"_House!_" someone who's not Wilson says sharply, catching his fist.

He struggles. Wants to shout and rage and hit. Blood throbs too loudly in his ears. He wants everything to stop.

Stacy and Cuddy appear next to Wilson in his room in the rehab wing. He's restrained with Velcro straps used in ambulances, but he's lying on the familiar bed in rehab. They stand in front of him, unmoved, while he suffers.

"You lied to me," he roars at them. The things they say aren't true, even though they don't talk. He can see the lies in their faces. All lies.

Another face appears ringed with bright lights, saying soothing things.

He shuts his eyes. Shuts out their lying expressions. Seethes and struggles.

Saline instead of morphine in his spine—it's real, he knows the pain is real, but Cuddy doesn't believe him—

Unauthorized use of ketamine—he swings at Wilson, wants to kill him for lying, for pretending he wasn't in on the plan—

Stacy smirks—disregarding his wishes about the dead muscle tissue in his thigh—he'd trusted her and she'd—he wants her to hurt like he hurts—he struggles but he's restrained and she's standing by, not helping, not listening—

Not listening when his shoulder flares up—at least your shoulder's human—bullshit! he yells at Wilson—can't even walk like this—

Not believing his pain's worse—telling him it's all psychological—he's doing it to himself—all three accusing him

_he wants to suffer_

"I don't!" he protests

"_House, you're dreaming—calm down—_"

he struggles, lights too bright

and feels small and pathetic because he's crying because everyone leaves him alone and scared

and it's what he wants and he hates himself for wanting to be alone, hates that being alone is easier

"_House—_"

hates the incompetence cost him his health and Stacy, hates that Wilson thinks everything since then must be about Stacy, can't possibly have a basis in physical reality

"_calm down—_"

hates that Cuddy tricks him 'for his own good,' hates that everyone thinks they know better what's good for him than he does

"_it's_—"

hates being dependent on Vicodin and a cane, hates how old and unattractive he feels

"_okay_—"

hates that Wilson wants to spend time with Amber, hates the fear that Wilson's not going to spend time with him anymore

"_you're_—"

hates that he respects Amber

"_dreaming_—"

hates the unsatisfying dreams he has about her and StacyCuddyCameronThirteen

hates that Wilson doesn't show up, hates that he's glad Amber comes in his place

"_He's not—_"

hates that he's tantalized when she sits down across from him on the bus, hates that he thinks about her following him inside his apartment

hates that he can't blame those thoughts on alcohol, hates his complicity in her death, hates Wilson for blaming him

"_waking up—_"

hates that he hasn't managed to get himself killed yet, hates the part of him that thinks death is the only way out

hates the pain that drives him to those thoughts, _hates that he suffers_

"I don't want to," he sniffles, and hates himself for crying because crying is a sign of weakness

hates feeling so exposed because no one's moving to help him, they stay four feet away while he's Velcroed to a bed in rehab

hates that he wants someone to tell him everything is okay

hates that he wants to believe the lie—_it's okay_

"_House, it's okay, shh, it's okay_."

WilsonCuddyStacy disappear.

Hands on his shoulder and arm, he pushes them away. It's not okay. Never is, never will be. He's weak for crying about it.

"No son of mine is weak."

He follows the logic: you're weak, you're no son of mine.

Dad's stern face looking down at him as he cowers. Mom standing behind Dad, telegraphing sympathy and false promises.

He's wedged himself between the toilet and the bathtub in the base house that looks the same on every continent. Hopes Dad won't get him here between two cold porcelain rocks. He's cold enough already, Dad will see that.

Hates himself for crying in front of Dad. Hates Mom for trying to make him feel better.

Hates that he does feel better, blood pressure dropping, heart slowing, calmer.

Even though it's not okay.

Hates that he likes moving all the time because it's easier to leave friends than to keep them. Hates that he likes something that's easy. Easy is weak.

"_Shh it's okay_"

A face he doesn't recognize, lights too bright. He wipes his face, covers his eyes. He's invisible. No one can find him here.

When he opens his eyes, Wilson and Amber are fifteen, twenty feet away from him, lit by an overhead morgue light.

Wilson won't speak. Just stares, the same way dead Amber stares deadly at him, looking too alive, her head at a crooked angle, nearly falling off the stainless steel table she's on. Wilson stands next to her. A chasm House can't cross separates the two of them from him. Fifteen feet. Twenty feet.

Dad's voice, booming from nowhere, like God's:

"This is your fault."

Dead Amber with her crooked neck and wide-open eyes. Wilson not speaking.

"You're selfish and weak. You want everything to be handed to you. You think everything's easy. You want other people to do everything for you."

Keys appear in Wilson's hand. Jingle.

"You want to be crippled. You want pain so people will pity you and give you things."

Pain rips through his leg, makes him stumble.

"You want that crutch."

A polished wooden handle catches him, takes his weight.

"And the other."

The hard plastic of an orange bottle in his other hand. His leg quiets.

"And this one."

Liquor fumes. He feels sleepy, apathetic. The morgue, Wilson and Amber, the table—all fade.

"Because you don't care about anyone but yourself."

She appears across the aisle on the stale bus. He's tantalized that she's followed him, thinks ahead to arriving at his apartment, a fantasy of her following him inside unfolds. She sneezes. He's got sleeves to offer. She's got a hard plastic orange bottle. She's killing herself. Bright lights zoom in too fast.

He can't stop any of it. Can't move. Can't scream. Can't feel.

He gasps, blinks. Bright lights. Thirteen, Kutner, Taub. Foreman's at his feet. He sees his toes and a syringe, registers the pinprick smarting his big toe.

"Oww," he complains. He's sticky with sweat. Exhausted. "What?"

"We couldn't wake you up," Foreman says. "You were dreaming."

"I know that," House grouses, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He's soaked through with sweat. The gown sticks, cooling now.

He refuses to remember the dreams, though he knows they'll be there when he closes his eyes. He wants everyone to go away. Wants to sleep. Wants quiet.

"Your blood pressure spiked," Taub says. "185 over 119."

House isn't fazed because "Obviously you fixed it."

The patient in the next bay starts coughing. House glances angrily at the curtain, then back to Foreman.

"I have to be here?" he grumbles. He's wet and cold. He pulls the blanket up.

"You just had hypertensive crisis," Taub says with exasperation. "Another one."

House watches Taub eye Foreman. Doesn't care. The coughing continues.

"Yes, and you fixed it," he growls. That coughing is— "Shut up!" he yells at the curtain. He glares at the four of them. "_That's_ bad for my blood pressure."

"No headache or anxiety?" Kutner asks.

House glares at him. "Headache might have _something_ to do with the crack in my skull," he growls. "I'm _fine_. I need to sleep, but I can't with all this racket." He gestures to the curtain.

"He's at 143 over 95," Thirteen says, her eyes on the monitor.

"_Because it's loud in here!_" House shouts.

"House, calm down," Thirteen orders.

Foreman and Kutner exchange glances. Kutner leaves.

House misses the exchange because he's closed his eyes. His head throbs. BP's too high, he gets that, and he's agitated. He tries to calm down.

"Kutner's getting eighty milligrams labetalol and two of lorazepam," Foreman explains.

House covers his eyes with his hands to block out the residual orange glow. "You had to wake me up for this?" he grumbles.

"I wanted to see if you needed an emergency head CT," Foreman says, "or if you could wait a little while."

Foreman tells him he's in line for a CT in the next hour.

House grunts to himself. Too many doctors spoil the patient, he thinks. And not in the good sense. He doesn't want to be drugged, but he knows lorazepam's a good idea. Coughing from the next bay irks him. And he has a better chance of not dreaming with it.

He hears the heart monitor beeping too quickly. He can't calm down like he should.

No one speaks.

He feels the IV line move. He won't admit he's thankful. He doesn't feel them leaving. Wishes they would.

Then he feels the chemical relaxant. The false calm. Feels real enough.

He doesn't care now if they stay. He's relaxed. Comfortable. Sleepy. Doesn't care about anything. Especially dreams.

That's how he likes it.


	9. Run

**Run**

When he opens his eyes again, the lights are low and the room is quiet. The room feels deserted. Like it's two in the morning and he's the only person still awake in the hospital.

"Hey."

Cuddy's voice on his left. He turns his head slightly.

She's in the chair he remembers being in last. He's tucked into the bed. On his back. His legs tell him he's been still for a while. He feels dopey. Insulated.

What happened?

He doesn't care too much about receiving an answer quickly. A side effect of whatever medication has him so insulated.

He lifts a hand to rub his eyes. His hand moves slowly. Protests.

Cuddy moves. Shifts her weight. Must be waiting for him to speak. Okay. He has questions.

"What time is it?" he asks in a sleepy, drugged voice. The words elongate like they must pass through a tunnel before becoming sound. His hand doesn't want to keep moving on its path to his face.

He shifts his eyes. Watches her consult the monitor. Takes in her fresh appearance, new clothes.

How much time has he lost? Feels like…too much.

It's a frightening question given how changed his environment is, but he feels no panic. Remembers no dreams. Just peace. Quiet.

"Almost six," Cuddy answers.

House nods, grunts. He massages his eyelids, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets his hand fall on his face. Too much trouble to lift it.

"A.m. or p.m.?" he asks, his tongue heavy. His mouth tastes like drugs. Preservatives in the saline and medication. Chemical yet clean. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

He registers that something's happened to him between the restless dreaming he recalls and now. Doesn't know what. Too quiet and calm to care much.

His hand slides down his face and stops on his chest. Cuddy's smiling when he opens his eyes.

"P.m.," she answers.

He blinks. But what day?

"Thursday?" he asks, slurring the word slightly.

"Thursday," she confirms.

He relaxes, nods. Just a few hours, then, since he'd talked to Foreman at noon and to the whole team sometime after that. No need to be concerned.

Cuddy's still smiling. Like something's making her very content. That bugs him.

"Why're you smiling?" he asks.

His eyes flicker from her smile and her excellent cleavage to his blanket-covered body. He wants to yawn and stretch and move, and he also wants to remain still.

He looks back to Cuddy. God, that's nice cleavage. She wore that shirt just for him. He's sure of it.

"You're awake," she answers.

He wants to sniff at that comment, but doesn't. Too…relaxed.

"It's an accomplishment," he mumbles, shifting his attention back on the space in front of him.

Cuddy's happy or excited. He feels more about her cleavage than he does about her mood.

Slowly he's becoming aware of his body. His groin is a tropical rainforest. He forces his arm down the blanket and pats. Groans a little.

"I didn't poop myself again, did I?" he grumbles. He doesn't want her to answer, didn't even mean to say that out loud, but he doesn't stop himself from looking at her to see how she responds.

She shrugs slightly. "You weren't awake for it."

He closes his eyes with feigned disgust. Cuddy's cleavage—the fact that she dressed for him—makes him want to put on a show. Just a little show. Not too much effort. He likes that she's wearing that shirt for him. Wishes he hadn't asked about the pooping.

"You weren't here, were you?"

He _really_ doesn't want to know that answer. But he looks at her anyway. Cleavage in his peripheral vision. Nice.

She shrugs slightly. He groans.

"_Tell_ me you're in to scat," he complains. He has to save some face. Some modicum of charm and sexiness. Even though she's seen him like this before.

Cuddy just smiles. Amused. Or happy. He can't tell.

"You did an incredibly stupid thing to try to help someone," Cuddy tells him in that 'I'm proud of you for doing the right thing despite whatever you'll say to deny you did it because it's the right thing' tone.

He gets it. She's proud and kind of happy and probably relieved. Doesn't care about the poop.

"And you did," she continues. "Wilson got to say goodbye. Everyone got to say goodbye. Amber included."

House blinks, heart quickening, a small adrenaline surge waking him more.

He didn't know any of that. He'd assumed she'd remained comatose while they warmed her up and she died.

But someone woke her up. _Why would anyone do that?_ He's a little more stunned than maybe he ought to be.

He looks at Cuddy. "Who woke her up?"

He knows the answer, but asks anyway. Maybe he needs to hear it.

"Wilson."

House shifts his gaze back to his feet and the wall. "To tell her she was dying."

"To say goodbye," Cuddy corrects.

House stares. Wonders if he'd want to be woken up. But he has no one he'd want to say goodbye to. The act strikes him as incredibly selfish.

"That's cruel," he says.

_I just wanted the answer_, he thinks. He didn't consider how the answer might be used. The wheels in his head start to spin. The conversation they must have had drifts into his head.

Cuddy's hand on his breaks his reverie. He looks up.

"You did a good thing," she says. "They needed that time."

"I didn't do it because it was good," House mumbles, more to himself than to Cuddy.

He's bothered by the fact that Wilson woke her up to tell her she was going to die. He's bothered because he _does_ know why Wilson would do such a thing.

Because that's what he'd expected Stacy to do to him years ago.

He'd never instructed her to do that. Wake him up to tell him he was dying. But as soon as he'd requested to be put into a coma to ride out the pain, the thought had come to him.

He'd assumed she'd do it. Expected to come out of the chemical coma one of two ways: with an intact right leg or a girlfriend telling him he was going to die very soon. _If _they'd been able to wake him up at all.

He blinks stupidly at the wall. He's spent a long time trying to forget this. Now he's remembering against his will.

He remembers incredible pain. Weakness. Fever. Exhaustion. Then the happy resignation of his life to her. Because he'd trusted her. Because he'd been too tired to keep going.

He'll never be so weak again.

He remembers his expectations. He'd go to sleep. The pain would end. And he'd wake up to Stacy's crying face and that expression she'd worn too often then of false strength, a mask for him, to keep him from becoming upset. Because she didn't understand that seeing her upset wouldn't have affected him. She'd be crying with joy or with sorrow. He'd live or he'd die. But he wouldn't hurt. Not much and not for long if she woke him up to die. He knows she would have done it, if that's how things had gone.

He understands. Wilson woke Amber up for the same reasons he'd expected Stacy to wake him. Because the living are selfish.

He doesn't agree with it. Doesn't like it. Wouldn't have done it to her if their positions had been reversed. It's too cruel. Too selfish. He would have let her die in peace. And destroyed himself later. Accepted the consequences.

He doesn't like these thoughts and allows Cuddy to draw him out of them before he becomes too tangled.

She's talking. He listens.

"Whatever your motive was, he'd be in worse shape if you hadn't given him that time," she says.

_Bullshit_, he wants to say. He didn't give Wilson time. He gave himself the answer. Wilson just happened to be there.

And he didn't do it for Wilson or Amber; he did it for himself. He's convinced of that now. He's had some sleep. He's not vulnerable like he'd been last night, this morning. Doesn't think altruism might have inflected his decision.

Wilson should have let her go in peace. Yeah, he'd be in worse shape if he'd done it like that. He should have accepted that consequence.

He grunts at Cuddy. Doesn't want to waste his energy talking about it. Doesn't want to think about it either, because it upsets him. He doesn't need another hypertensive crisis because he's upset by something not worth getting upset about.

He focuses on something else.

Cuddy's hand. It's the most readily available distraction.

Cuddy's hand is still on his hand. He remembers her holding his hand last night. This morning too. She's never done this.

He notices the room again. It had been so loud and bright. Now it's quiet and empty. The atmosphere feels wrong. Prearranged.

He remembers waking up before in such an atmosphere. But not to an intact leg or the news that he would die soon.

His sense that something serious has happened to him grows stronger. He's intrigued.

He moves his hand slightly, looking from it to Cuddy.

"I'm not dying, am I?" he asks.

It's meant to be a joke, but it falls flat. Feels a little too real after he says it. So does the fact that he hasn't wrested his hand away yet and he doesn't know why that is.

Cuddy looks from their hands back to him. Defiant. Not afraid of touching him.

"You probably should be," she answers wryly, then softens. "But no. You're not dying."

House eyes the hands again, then her. He wills himself not to think about why he hasn't shaken his hand loose. Focuses on something else.

"But I am stuck here right now," he says. It's not a question.

"The CT revealed another bleed," Cuddy answers. "You missed surgery by a tenth of a centimeter. Foreman aspirated it and confirmed the bleeding had stopped. You're back on mannitol and phytonadione until tomorrow. Minimal edema. Somehow."

House reaches for his right ear and feels a small patch of gauze behind it.

"Don't mess with that," Cuddy scolds.

House glowers, but lets his arm fall to the bed. Stereotactic aspiration means anesthesia. That's why he feels so numb.

"You'll be here for a few days," she tells him. "More if your blood pressure doesn't stabilize."

He twists his face unhappily, but then his memory kicks. Something from earlier.

"Foreman wanted to lower the labetalol I was on," he says.

This time it is a question. He can't quite remember if it happened or he dreamed it, though Taub telling him he'd had another hypertensive crisis pretty much confirms it.

"Foreman said you wanted to get out of here," Cuddy answers. "He thought he'd try one of your methods on you. It was stupid."

"Only because it didn't work," House mutters. He would rather Foreman try and fail than do nothing. And the combination of lorazepam and anesthesia gave him a few hours' dreamless sleep.

He's not dying. But he's not well.

"What happened to Coughy McGee?" he asks, tossing his head carefully to the curtain on the left.

Cuddy doesn't answer immediately. Her hesitation provides his answer.

"Passed away," Cuddy says. "About an hour ago."

House stares at his feet again. That death doesn't matter to him.

Amber's death doesn't matter to him like it should. Like it should? He's not even sure what that means. How should death matter? Why one death and not another?

This is why he wants to be home: he doesn't want to think about these questions. He's not dead. That's all that matters.

Cuddy sits next to him. Still holding his hand.

He stares at his feet and the wall for what seems like a long time, not thinking. Anesthetic's making him numb again. Good. But he doesn't feel sleepy. Just slow.

Time passes as he stares. He's too doped to have much of a sense of time. Just knows he's in a stupor and isn't falling asleep.

Cuddy says his name.

He turns his head. What?

"Why did Amber follow you onto the bus?" Cuddy asks.

He looks back at the wall. His mind kick-starts.

He wishes he knew the answer. It's plagued his dreams and will probably continue to plague him for a long time.

He was drunk. He remembers wanting to let it play out, to see where she was going with it. To see if she'd follow him to his apartment. He remembers not asking because he thought asking might spoil the mood. But he was drunk.

On the surface, she'd followed him to bring him his cane. He knows that's a plausible reason. Something she'd do.

Had he left it intentionally? He knows himself too well to say no. But he doesn't think yes is correct either.

_I was drunk_.

He wants that to be the answer. But he doesn't _know_.

He shakes his head. Just a little. Carefully. His head aches through the anesthetic.

"Don't know," he says softly.

He thinks she might've been teasing him again. She'd follow him to his apartment under the pretense of seeing him home in one piece, tease him or lecture him about sharing Wilson, probably both, and leave him drunk, horny, and alone. That's who she was.

But it's still only a theory. He'll never know.

"Why the bus?" Cuddy asks, cutting into his thoughts. "Why didn't you ride home with her?"

That one he knows the answer to. _Because I would have done something inappropriate_.

The thought lingers in his mind.

He didn't want to do anything inappropriate. He's not sure why. He doesn't usually heed his inhibitions, especially when he's even more uninhibited than usual.

But he thinks it has a lot to do with one of his dreams earlier.

It's easier to be alone.

Because he exists contrary to nature: escapes death, puts self-preservation above species propagation. Above biological drive.

Because as much fun as it would have been for an hour or a night, everything afterward would have been inconvenient and unpleasant and just not worth the trouble.

He'd been trying to escape her by taking the bus. To escape the things he wanted to do. He's fairly certain of that.

And she'd followed him. He'll never know why.

No amount of hand holding will get him to tell Cuddy this, though, so he shakes his head again. _Don't know_, he implies. It's a minor lie.

He senses that Cuddy wants to say something to him like, 'It's not your fault' or 'you did all you could do.' That she assumes he feels complicit and needs someone to tell him not to feel that way.

He doesn't feel complicit. He'd called Wilson, not her. He'd tried to dodge her. Hadn't coerced her.

Maybe it was that drink. That gulped cosmopolitan.

But he knows that's not true. One drink didn't cloud her judgment. Not that quickly.

_The cane_.

No.

He hadn't wanted her there. Hadn't called her. He remembers he'd wanted to do something with Wilson. To drink with him or cajole him into watching a movie or a ball game at the apartment.

He remembers he'd been drinking so heavily in public because he liked the possibility of meeting someone he'd consider going home with and the certainty of luring Wilson out of domestic bliss to give him a ride. Because either way he wouldn't be alone for a little while. And when he was alone again, he wouldn't have to drink much from his personal stash to put himself to bed.

None of this makes him proud, but none of it makes him guilty either.

"House?"

He shifts his eyes to her.

"You okay?"

Normally he'd berate her for asking such an asinine question. Normally he wouldn't let her hold his hand, too. This isn't normal.

"Fine," he says. Heavy, drugged voice. Looks back to his feet, the wall.

"Any dizziness?" she asks.

Medical questions. She's not going to push the personal. He'd be happy, but the anesthetic's tightening its grip. He can't feel anything.

"No," he answers. His voice is becoming a ghost of itself. He'll slip off soon. If he just closes his eyes.

"Nausea?"

He doesn't want to close his eyes. Doesn't want to dream. Knows he'll dream about Stacy and those miserable days. All the variations his mind invents of waking up that first time, not dying but not really living either.

"House?"

He blinks. Cuddy's still here. Her hand's still on his.

"Any nausea?"

"No," he says to the wall.

He doesn't want to dream. A list of drugs that inhibit dreaming slowly crystallizes. He weighs each one, its method of action and clinical findings about it, against the drugs already in his system, their methods of action, and the strong correlation between nightmares and head injury. He chooses.

Smiles at his choice. An antihypertensive that inhibits norepinephrine reuptake and regulates REM sleep. Better sleep, better dreams, no more hypertensive crises. Not as good as liquor, but maybe as effective.

"Cuddy," he says. Sound elongates when he speaks again, like when he woke up.

He shifts his eyes. Blinks heavily. She's attentive, waiting for him to speak.

"Start me on prazosin," he instructs with a slight slur. "Titrate the labetalol down."

"You think it'll be more effective?" she asks.

He tries to express nonverbally how stupid that question is. Of course he thinks it'll be more effective.

She understands, throws him a quick, punishing glare for pointing out that her question had an obvious answer, and the warmth generated by her hand covering his diffuses.

He watches her leave. That ass never stops. He stores the visual.

His lip curls in a small smile. Maybe he'll dream about Cuddy.

She's enticing, but he sobers quickly, reminded of his body. Doesn't want to invite an erection with a Foley in. Painful at best.

He tries to think of something else. To concentrate on what he wants to dream about.

He ignores her when she returns, except for a glance to ensure she's got the drug he wants. Administers it. Sits.

She's not sitting next to him. He's not going to think about that. Not with a Foley.

He concentrates on something else.

Running. He wants to dream about running.

Running is his favorite. Even if he's running in terror from something. It's still good to run.

He closes his eyes and pictures the eight mile route from his apartment to the hospital. Early morning. Dew on the grass. Fresh air. Warmth of a rising sun. Regulated breathing. In through his nose, out thorough his mouth. Warm blood streaming to his quads and calves. Even chafing from the too-long shorts he wears to cover the scar.

He breathes slowly. The anesthetic takes over.

Cuddy fades. The room fades.

He runs.


	10. Order

**Order**

Cuddy watches House for an hour before she leaves. She wants some indication that the new medication is working, or at least not harming him, prior to visiting Wilson.

His blood pressure drops after he stops talking and closes his eyes, and remains elevated with a few spikes for most of the hour, but stays in the pre-hypertensive range. He's not so much asleep as he is unconscious, she decides, when two vitals checks fail to rouse him at all. Coming off the anesthetic.

Though he hadn't said very much in response to her questions, she'd seen him thinking. He'd had that lost expression he gets when a new, troubling, non-medical issue comes his way. She's left him with that expression more than a few times; she knows it well.

She's pleased he answered her at all, but not sure what to make of his assessment of Wilson's decision. Called it cruel. Didn't take Wilson's side. What's going on between them?

What doesn't she know?

She's pretty sure she hasn't learned everything that House revealed during the deep brain stimulation session. She'd known House had been out drinking and had ended up on a bus with Amber. Wilson supplied the diagnosis and a critical link: that House had called for Wilson and gotten Amber.

But what else?

More specifically, she's been asking herself the same question she's seen on the faces of everyone familiar with the situation: what was the relationship between House and Amber?

She knows House will deny anything out of habit. That Amber reminded her in many ways of Stacy. That House made that relationship a triangle as soon as he learned of it. That he's selfish and likes to get what he wants. And that he can be nasty to people who care about him if it suits his purposes. Even if it doesn't.

His callous remarks about her maternal instincts still sting. Probably never will stop stinging.

But she also knows House prefers brunettes. And that it takes two to tango.

She knew just enough about Amber not to trust her to be good with Wilson. Wilson obviously doesn't feel betrayed by her—not at all, going by the way she's seen him grieve.

She doesn't expect House to ask about Wilson. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

That Wilson didn't ask about House earlier today—means nothing.

She wonders as she gets up to leave if he will tonight.

One last check of House: normal sinus rhythm, 128/85, 77 bpm, 99.4 F, 99 percent sat rate.

She takes his hand. "House," she says quietly, "I'll be back in a few hours." Looks for a response.

His mouth twitches and his hand jerks, but he's out.

His level of consciousness is disconcerting. A reminder of bad times.

He's fine, she tells herself. He needs the rest. He'll be here when she comes back.

But still she leaves reluctantly.

--

From the parking garage to the sandwich shop to Wilson's door, she wrestles with two things: whether she should mention House's progress to Wilson and why she's been acting like House's only protector since yesterday.

Because she doesn't actually _like_ House. He can be witty and charming and on some occasions attractive, but ninety-five percent of the time she's too frustrated, annoyed, or openly angry with him to like him. Constant arguing may be a turn-on to House, but she pictures a measure of tranquility when she thinks of how she wants her life to be. Not that arguing with him isn't fun sometimes or that she naively believes real relationships can exist without arguments—just that he's bad for her stress level.

She knows she's watching him because Wilson isn't. Can't or won't. And that he needs someone to watch him, if only during this short, volatile period.

She knows friends and family of patients hold their hands. She also knows she's never seen Wilson hold his hand, but that she saw plenty of Stacy holding his hand.

She's ready to chalk it up to gender differences when she reaches Wilson's building.

Holding Wilson's hand wasn't difficult.

She boxes these thoughts and puts the box away. Not now.

Wilson still looks like a ghost of himself when he answers the door. Shadows under his sunken, red eyes. She's sure he hasn't slept very much or very well.

She doesn't have to say anything. He turns from her, leaving the door open, and disappears toward the kitchen. She lets herself in and follows.

She watches him fetch two glasses of water as she unpacks the food. She feels like she's done this thousands of times rather than once.

He sits and eats this time. Still hasn't said a word. Doesn't make eye contact.

She eats too. Follow his lead. Let him feel he's in control.

Half-way through the sandwich, she realizes this is one of the most intimate domestic experiences she's had.

She's startled. And saddened.

It's the non-verbal communication, she decides. Either that it isn't necessary to speak or that it's absolutely necessary. Because between the two of them, there's enough unreleased stress to power a city block.

Wilson finishes his food and gulps the water piggishly.

"Thanks," he says to the table, "didn't realize I was that hungry."

Cuddy's in the middle of chewing when he speaks, so she nods and just keeps chewing. Let him take the lead.

He continues to stare at the table. Just as he'd done at lunch.

"The funeral home called," he says. "They wanted to schedule an appointment. For me to pick a casket. Buy a burial plot. Schedule the…funeral."

He sounds less flat now than he did earlier. She hears anger, frustration, unwillingness.

"I don't want to," he adds. Softly. To himself.

"I still don't know what to do with her stuff," he says. He looks around, but avoids Cuddy. "Donate most of it. But I don't know what to keep and what to give away."

Cuddy waits for him to continue. She wants to chime in because he doesn't seem to be asking himself alone. And because she's pretty sure he hasn't asked anyone else.

When he doesn't say more, she speaks.

"Keep your favorites," she says, "and her favorites. Donate anything she didn't like."

He nods, eyes back on the table. Anyone could be talking to him, she thinks. Whatever relationship they have, it doesn't matter. What he needs is direction.

And when it comes to providing direction on this subject, she's as lost as he is. Hasn't been touched by the death of a close relative or friend. For which she's grateful.

Minutes pass. Excruciatingly long minutes. People in other apartments make noises. Nothing but stillness in this one, the fine veneer on layers and layers of stress.

She begins to think she should try to get more out of him. She hopes she isn't wrong, but she imagines him sitting alone in this apartment all night, not speaking, over-thinking, and she wants him to externalize some part of his thoughts.

"Have you thought about keeping the apartment?" she asks. An innocuous question, she hopes.

He shakes his head. "Don't know."

He places a hand on a stack of envelopes Cuddy had noticed earlier. She's certain she knows what's in the stack.

"Don't know what to do with her mail," he says, confirming Cuddy's supposition. He pats it, almost fondly, and pushes it aside.

"Credit cards—I guess I pay them and cancel them," he says. "Her car—I don't know what to—how do you make that call: 'Hello, the owner of this vehicle is dead, does she still have to pay it off?'"

A twisted smile forms on his face and disappears. Bitter.

"She has life insurance," he continues, still focused on the table, still not looking up, "and med school loans. She couldn't have afforded to live on a fellowship stipend."

Cuddy watches his hands form fists.

"She had a second interview today," Wilson says shakily. "Trenton Presbyterian." His hands tremble. "She keeps getting calls. I don't answer them. I can't."

He forces himself to stop shaking. Takes so much effort, she notices.

"Do you want me to—stay for a while? Help you sort through anything?" she asks tentatively. Awkwardly. She says before she realizes what she's saying.

She's not good at this. If she were, she wouldn't be in administration. She's uncomfortable waiting for him to answer, and feels guilty for feeling uncomfortable.

"No," Wilson answers strongly. "Thanks. No, I've got it."

He looks up at her for the first time. He tries to smile.

"Thanks for coming," he says, "and for the food."

She senses he's genuinely appreciative, just having trouble with the world outside himself right now.

"Breakfast tomorrow?" she asks as she gets up, crinkling sandwich wrappers.

"You don't have to do this," Wilson says, taking the wrapper from her. "I'm okay."

She gives him a dubious expression.

"I mean, I'm not," he corrects, "but still, you don't have to—check up on me."

He's nervous, uncertain, and as awkward as she'd been asking if he wanted her to stay.

"As long as it's okay with you, I'd like to," Cuddy says in her most friendly tone. Because she does care about him. Insofar as he's another person and he's suffering and she can help him.

He scratches his neck. Uncertain. "Okay," he says.

She's ready to go—but she hesitates. Turns from the path to the door.

"Do you want to know—how he's doing?" she asks.

Wilson's pale, tired face clouds. She sees anger.

"Is he dying?" Wilson asks flatly.

"He's stable," she answers, mentally backing away from him. "Conscious."

Wilson shakes his head and looks away. Doesn't want to know more than that.

She's not sure she's done the right thing as he closes the door behind her, but she's glad she'd asked. She hopes this rift between them is temporary. That Wilson will treat House normally again when his life starts normalizing. A few weeks.

She knows House won't treat Wilson differently unless he thinks Wilson's mad at him. She's not sure whether to expect cold silence or intense shouting. She hopes for the latter. Shouting is better than nothing.

As she exits the building, she avoids thinking about just how much these two men with whom she has little more than a working relationship have influenced her life so radically in the past few days. Because it's pathetic and she doesn't consider herself an object of pity.

She's almost successful. But not quite.

She's beginning to miss paperwork and calls for donors and all the other chaos of work. One last check up on House, she decides, and she'll go home and go to bed. Back to work tomorrow. Back to ordering the chaos.


	11. Change

**Change**

House wakes suddenly with a gasp of pain. He curls reflexively to protect the part of him that hurts; he knows what's happened.

He didn't get Cuddy out of his head as he'd planned.

He's been here too often—the sharp, grating feel of sandpaper in his urethra, the potentially embarrassing dream fading—and he uncurls as the pain changes from acute stabbing to less acute throbbing.

He remembers dreaming that he'd run to Cuddy's house—reliving the memory from nearly two years ago—and she'd been happy to see him. He can still see her curves silhouetted by back-lighting and a nearly-transparent nightgown.

This is all Cuddy's fault, this throbbing in his groin. If she wasn't bugging him all the time, wearing that beer shirt…

He rolls onto his left side, expecting to see her.

No Cuddy. Open-mouthed, sleeping Kutner instead.

"You drew the short straw?" House says loudly.

Kutner jumps and House waits with an evil smile for the moment of recognition. Sees Kutner realize there's no emergency and hide his chagrin at the rude awakening.

House's motives aren't clear to him yet, except that he wants to disrupt Kutner's sleep. Because he can.

Kutner's still waking up. "What'd you need?" he asks sleepily.

House is ready to say that he needs nothing, just wanted to mess with him, but his throat's dry and he feels…good…mischievous…

"Water," he says, though he's so accustomed to cotton mouth he could just as well go without.

But he feels better and wants to cause trouble, even if the trouble is only troubling Kutner for water.

He rolls onto his back again to track Kutner's movement. He feels good. Wants to get up and stretch. Maybe take a walk.

"Feeling better?" Kutner asks as he delivers the water.

House ignores him. "I want to see my chart," he says between sips.

He knows already the prazosin's regulating his sleep. He wants to see now if it's also doing what the FDA approved it to do to his blood pressure so that he can get out of bed without causing another bleed or more edema.

Kutner gives him a funny look but does what he's asked to do. Fetches.

The water's good. The first few sips remind House that he's thirsty—remind him what being thirsty feels like. Awoken by an erection, ready to get out of bed, thirsty—his appetites are coming back. Means he'll be ready to get out of here soon.

He smiles at that and drains the cup.

Kutner returns with the chart. House scans the vitals and meds records. His blood pressure's at the high end of normal with two antihypertensives and he's still showing a slight fever despite acetaminophen. Autonomic system's still off.

"You hungry?" Kutner asks.

House looks up from the chart. Kutner's refilling the cup.

"Because I can get you some food…"

"Not right now," House says briskly. "I want to move around. Take a quick walk."

He hands Kutner the chart, noticing Kutner's not totally on board with the idea.

"If you have another seizure, or pass out—" Kutner begins.

"If I pass out—you're a doctor, right?" House interrupts in his best insulting manner.

Kutner grudgingly accepts the logic, shrugging and nodding.

House sits up, using his hands to push himself into position, and blinks away the dizziness. Probably caused by the fact that he hasn't eaten more than a cup of applesauce in two days rather than the crack in his skull, he reasons. That must be it.

"Bring me the supplies I need to yank the Foley," he says breathily, squeezing his eyes shut. Damn. Still dizzy.

When he opens them again, Kutner's still there. Slack-jawed with disbelief: _you wanna do _what_?_

"Even if I don't get up," House says, "I want it out."

Kutner begins, "I'll get a nurse—"

"No, I don't want a nurse," House corrects, quickly becoming annoyed. "Just bring me the supplies. I'll do it."

"Okay," Kutner mumbles and turns to leave.

House wants to pace. Even if he doesn't last long on his feet, he must move. He's been in bed too long. Makes him feel more crippled than he is.

He needs a destination. The smell of dried sweat provides him with one. A shower. That's what he'll do. Walk to the lounge and take a shower.

Yes.

Kutner's taking his time. House detubes and unwires himself.

When Kutner returns, House is ready with an order.

"Get me a pizza," he demands. "Everything on it. Large."

Kutner's mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish's.

"I thought you weren't hungry," he begins.

House shoos him with a look: _just do it_. House has his doubts about how trainable Kutner really is, but Kutner leaves without objecting again.

House takes his time pulling the Foley. He's determined not to encounter one of these again for at least a year. The nurses can put him back in a diaper; it's better than extending the week of soreness that'll plague him from this round. He has enough trouble walking as it is.

Walking. He's ready. No matter how painful.

He never does anything small when he can do it big, so he doesn't go slowly. Stands as soon as his feet touch the floor.

And just manages to find the generous leather chair behind him before he gets too dizzy and disoriented. Collapses there, heart pounding, the rush of blood to his head drowning out all other sound. Gasps—more blood intensifies his headache, mild panic at losing his bearings—then tries not to gasp.

Sound returns slowly. The sense that he's being whirled out of himself, blurred into two bodies by an out of control carnival ride begins to pass.

He calms. This has nothing to do with the crack in his skull. His blood pressure shot up when he stood rather than dropping. It's low blood sugar. He needs to eat.

But he wants to walk. Wants a shower.

He feels normal again when Kutner returns. Kutner has his cane. Well, not _his _cane. A cane. He doesn't imagine what's happened to his cane, the cane she followed him on to the bus to deliver. Files it away instead. Later he'll think about the fate of that particular cane.

"Forty-five minutes to an hour," Kutner says, handing the unfamiliar cane over.

"I _have_ ordered pizza before," House quips.

He lifts an arm to indicate he wants Kutner's help. Knows he's too shaky to do this by himself, doesn't want to risk passing out and hitting his head again.

He leans on Kutner more than he wants to, but it can't be helped. His head swims. Like he's underwater. Like the air is pushing against him.

"House?" he hears Kutner say, "you okay?"

He forces himself to breathe calmly. His leg hurts, and that helps. Keeps him focused on something.

"Yeah," he manages.

"Let's sit down," Kutner says and tries to push him back toward the chair.

"No." He stands his ground, albeit shakily. Shifts more of his weight to the cane.

Feels better now. The air is air again.

"Sure you're okay?"

He answers with a step forward. Hurts. Off-balance. The muscles squeeze, protest. He tightens his hold and Kutner and feels Kutner do the same. Head pounds. Vision's a little blurry.

He's not shaking this off as easily as he'd thought. Must be the result of more than a day of bedrest and improper nutrition.

But he keeps moving forward. If he's going down, he's taking Kutner with him. He wants to go to the longue, take a shower, and eat pizza in front of the TV there, and that's what he's going to do.

Kutner whines. Thinks this is unsafe. House ignores him. One foot in front of the other.

They reach the door. He calculates the steps between here and the longue. Doesn't look good. And who knows if Kutner had the presence of mind to grab his Vicodin. He's going to need it soon.

So he stops and leans against the wall outside the room. He's sweating, shaking. He's not going to make it on his feet. The glass under his palm tastes like blue ice.

"Get my Vicodin," he tells Kutner. The sentence smells like purple. He hears the words like he's listening through a backwards telescope. Or a kaleidoscope.

Synaesthesia, he realizes. He's hearing colors. Tasting sounds. He's not all right, but he's not about to admit it. Not while he's got Kutner in a drunk's version of a headlock and he can hear the squeak of his palm sliding down the glass wall.

Kutner tells one of the nurses to get a wheelchair. But he sounds normal now—not like the taste of mahogany or the texture of cheese. House concentrates—realizes he can concentrate—on breathing and keeping his knees from collapsing. He's dizzy and wobbly and hypoglycemic, but the synaesthesia's gone and so is the panic that accompanied it.

He feels Kutner trying to lower him more than he hears Kutner tell him to sit. Complies with the movement. Feels better sitting.

Pills rattle and appear next to his left hand. He snatches and deftly swallows two; his muscles remember what to do. Then Kutner's pulling him backward rather than pushing him forward. Taking him back to the room.

"Wait," House says. "I wanna go to the longue." His system's still not back to normal and the words come out in a rush as he exhales.

Kutner appears before him, squatting. Troubled look on his face. He's assessing the situation.

"Can't have pizza without TV," House adds. The fact that the image of Kutner stops moving in front of him helps his case.

"You're flushed," Kutner says, suddenly doctorly and serious. "Let me check your BP."

House nods tiredly. Kutner reminds him of Chase and Wilson. Willing to do what he says with minimal huffing and puffing, usually follows his lead, but sometimes insists on taking the lead. House doesn't respect that position—merely finds it convenient.

Chase is still Chase when he thinks about Chase. But Wilson is different.

By the time that thought has come and gone, Kutner's squatting in front of him again.

"150 over 94," Kutner says. Disapproves.

"Because I was standing," House argues, hearing how tired he sounds and ignoring it. "I'm okay now."

He's gotten enough control back that he can match Kutner's disagreeing expression. And that he can balance the cane on the armrests and wheel himself forward.

Kutner jumps up and out of the way, and House feels him take over.

"I'm gonna check your BP every five minutes until it's in a safer range," Kutner grumbles.

House just smiles. He always gets what he wants.

* * *

Showing takes everything he has left even with a chair. First Kutner has to be convinced. Then there's the negotiation of slippery surfaces going in and coming out. He lets Kutner drape a clean gown over him and plops into the wheelchair. Exhausted.

But it's worth it, he thinks, once he's settled on the couch with his feet up. The new dose of Vicodin kicks in around the same time. Elevates his mood. So does having a television in front of him.

Kutner inflates the BP cuff while House channel surfs. He doesn't care if nothing's on. He'll watch the Home Shopping Network right now. He'll even watch the news.

"144 over 86," Kutner announces.

House doesn't care. He's not sick when he's watching TV. He's in control. And he can think without having to pace.

He doesn't want to think. Not now. But he needs to.

It bothers him, just a little, that Wilson found out about the fact that Amber wasn't merely another pair of legs to him. She was ruthless. Exacting. And he still believes Wilson was really dating him through her. Sort of. But she was more than a proxy. Not much more, but just enough that she interested him. Because she exercised her own will.

At first, he'd wanted to sleep with her the way he wants to sleep with all attractive women. Just sex. Nothing beyond that. But then she'd gone after Wilson. Complicated everything. And around that time he realized she was more than just a potential sex partner to him. How much more, he doesn't know and doesn't want to think about.

He knows where this train of thought is taking him and he wants to jump off right now, roll away from the tracks, and let the train reach its destination without him.

But he can't. Because he never forgets his cane. Not even when he's wasted.

He wanted to get away from her. He's sure of that. But he wanted her to follow him too. He's equally sure of that.

The sensations, sounds, sights, thoughts—everything—that he did to Crandall years ago rush up from a recess in his memory. She was bad for Crandall, the woman Crandall wanted. She was bad for him because she was just promiscuous enough to trade one band member for another.

Sometimes he tells himself he was protecting Crandall from committing to her and finding out later, in some more damaging manner, that she would betray his trust. But he's not naïve enough to believe that he didn't betray Crandall's trust as well.

He knows he'd do it again. People don't change.

He'd dreamt about her coming over—Amber—saying she'd never tell Wilson about it, that just one time—

He'd dreamt too that Wilson had found out and punched him, given him the stink eye for a few weeks, and gotten over it. She always disappeared in those dreams; gone after their one night. No explanation.

But only actions matter, and he hadn't done anything with her. Nothing overt. He'd tried to leave.

Except that he left his cane.

He doesn't remember getting on the bus. He assumes it was a short, crooked, painful walk that he didn't feel at all. He doesn't remember her calling his name, trying to catch up with him. Just her appearing next to him, handing him his cane.

Those were her actions. Not his.

His thoughts shift abruptly. Chase is the same but Wilson is different.

He remembers waking up from electrocuting himself. Wilson's angry, worried face. Wilson enabling him with a sweet dose of pain meds.

The wives and divorces hadn't changed him. But she did. And fast.

Because this time Wilson wouldn't speak to him. Wouldn't even get close to him.

That's fine, he tells himself, he doesn't need Wilson. He didn't need Crandall either.

He'll find someone else to drink with. Watch games with. Abuse and prank. He's got Cuddy wrapped around his little finger right now. He doesn't want to watch games with her and he already abuses her; she's a stopgap measure, but right now she'll do.

He'll find someone else.

Because this isn't his fault. Not entirely. Not enough that he feels guilty.

"House?"

He blinks. Pizza box. Kutner.

"Pizza's here."

Kutner sits beside him and offers a soda.

House takes it wordlessly. He'd been ignoring Kutner so successfully that he hadn't noticed Kutner had left.

He grabs a slice of pizza and focuses intently on the television so Kutner will know to shut up.

Kutner. It's not lost on him, the nexus of his thoughts and Kutner's appearance. But Kutner's too naïve and slavish. Chase has become too independent. Foreman, Cameron, Taub, Thirteen—all too serious to have fun with.

He wonders where Bosley ended up. Bosley would make a good replacement, although he forgives with just a little too much condescending wisdom. Too grandfatherly. Bosley would rather agree than argue. That was part of the problem with Crandall. Too willing to go along. Wilson understood arguing for the sake of arguing.

Cuddy does too. But Cuddy's a special case. And his best friend can't be a woman. Too distracting.

"So what happened on the bus?"

House grunts. Even Kutner's voice sounds stupid.

He bites into a pizza slice, communicating with his eyes that his mouth is too full to answer. He exaggerates. Wants Kutner to know he's not going to answer that question.

But Kutner rides the short bus sometimes, and this is one of those times. Keeps glancing at House, reiterating the question.

House sniffs and takes another bite. "It crashed," he says through a mouthful.

Kutner snorts, but has the sense to appear contrite as well.

"You don't want to talk about it," Kutner says dully as if repeating a mantra, eyes rolled to the ceiling. He tears into his own slice, dividing his attention between it and House.

House ignores him. He doesn't take in the images on the television screen; too busy with food and how good it tastes and feels. He's halfway through a second slice when his stomach tells him to stop eating. Limitations. He hates limitations. So he clings stubbornly to the half-eaten slice and tries to will himself to feel like finishing it.

"Wilson's taking it pretty hard."

Kutner's voice surprises him again. He keeps forgetting Kutner's there. And Kutner keeps reminding him.

Beyond annoyance at how obvious it is, House feels almost nothing about the statement. He barely even sniffs in reply.

"What did you expect?" he mumbles, staring over the pizza at the television. Vicodin grants him patience if not hunger.

Kutner shrugs. "I don't know. He's just always here." He chews and looks over at House. "I mean, I thought he'd at least come by to see you by now."

House shrugs back. "He knows I'm no fun with a head injury."

Kutner acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. "But still," he persists, "when you zapped yourself, he barely left your room till you woke up."

"So his social life changed," House mutters. He doesn't like this conversation—or any conversation with Kutner—and he has no idea why he isn't giving Kutner the silent treatment. Much as he hates to do it, he blames the Vicodin for making him talkative.

And for killing his appetite. He sighs and tosses the unfinished slice into the box.

"Hey," Kutner protests with a full mouth, "this cost twenty-five bucks."

"Pizza without beer is like cheese without wine," House covers, leaning back with a hand on his stomach.

Kutner shrugs, conceding the point. He takes notice of House's posture.

"Give it time," he advises, as though House had asked for his opinion, "it'll come back."

Now House does ignore him. Doesn't care at all what Kutner thinks about his appetite. He glares when Kutner produces a BP cuff and snarls as he offers his arm. He wants to eat more, to ditch Kutner, to go home, to drink until he can't remember.

Abruptly, his hand starts shaking while Kutner's measuring. He tries to steady it with the other hand. Kutner looks at him quizzically, but House has no answer to offer. Not when they both know what's going on.

When Kutner removes the cuff, he shakes his hand, trying to shake out the shakes, and places it in his lap.

"152 over 90," Kutner reports, still with a questioning expression on his face.

The numbers are skewed by the mild panic over the tremor in his hand, House thinks, but he isn't going to tell Kutner about any panic, no matter how mild. Tremors after head trauma aren't abnormal. He's not going to worry because there's nothing he can do about it.

"I have to tell Foreman," Kutner says, almost apologetically.

House shrugs a shoulder. He's done with this. Done with Kutner's company, done showering and eating, done talking about things he doesn't want to talk about. His stomach has settled and the combination of Vicodin, food, and the shower has made him sleepy as well as tired. Kutner can tell Foreman whatever he wants.

"I'm ready to go back," House mumbles, taking in the flickering images on the TV, wishing he could bring the TV with him. Wishing he could just go home to his own TV.

"Okay."

House waits for Kutner to get the chair. He's not going very far on his own. Not when he's this tired.

He lets Kutner help him move and struggles to stay awake as they roll down the brilliantly lit halls.

He hates this. Hates Kutner for bringing Wilson up. Hates Wilson for sulking, being ungrateful, grieving—for whatever it is that's kept him away and that made Kutner mention his absence. Because although he knows he agreed to having a hole drilled in his brain because he needed to solve the mystery, he also knows that if Wilson hadn't asked him to do it, he probably wouldn't have done it. Wilson hasn't even said a proper thank you yet. If what Cuddy said is true, that his action had given Wilson time to say goodbye, then Wilson owes him at least a thank you.

And yet he knows by Wilson's absence that Wilson blames him. Wilson has to blame someone. He's not going to blame the dead girl. House realizes he's an easy target. But it was an accident. It was not preventable. It was not his fault.

He doesn't blame himself, not even a little. Because to allow himself to take some of the blame would be to invite more of it than he deserves. It's his dad's moral universe he's inhabiting, black and white. He hates that he shares anything with his dad, but he can't change his response.

But what he hates most is the sense he has that something big has changed. He doesn't want any change. He wants to maintain his normal. And right now he doesn't think he's got much chance of doing that. Not until he can get home and get himself a drink.

He lets Kutner help him onto the bed and plug him back in.

Now he's tired but no longer sleepy. He stares at nothing while Kutner settles in beside him. He thinks about things that have changed and things that haven't changed. And things that he can't change.

A long time passes before he falls asleep.


	12. Wrestling

**Wrestling**

House amazes everyone, including himself, by sleeping through the night.

He remembers nurses waking him up with little plastic cups of pills and water, he remembers waking up nauseous once and asking for metoclopramide, and he remembers telling Cuddy to go home a few times even though he's not sure she's awake to hear him. But when he wakes fully and notices the day-time light level in the hallway, he realizes he doesn't remember much else. He really did sleep all night. He'd be mortified that he's been such a good patient but he wants to get out of here and if he has to be good to expedite that, he'll be good. Temporarily.

Papers rustle next to him. Cuddy.

"You still have a home, right?" he says, mildly delighted when she jumps in surprise. "Because I don't see you falling victim to the sub-prime lending thing. But if you're—"

"Good morning to you, too," Cuddy interrupts, stacking the papers noisily, clearly ruffled.

"Grumpy," House observes, pleased that Cuddy's treating him normally. "Wake up on the wrong side of the chair?"

She glares. Doesn't answer. Instead, she goes to the room's phone. House watches her page someone.

He takes in her appearance. Dramatically improved from the last time he saw her. New clothes, fresh make-up. She even looks rested. Funny, since he recalls her sleeping in an uncomfortable ball next to his bed for most of the night.

She's been here, next to his bed, for most of the hours he's been awake. He shifts his weight, suddenly more aware of what her presence means.

When she returns, no snappy remark emerges from him. He's unnerved that she's spent so much time by his bedside. Unnerved and uncomfortable.

Because she's not supposed to care about him in this way.

She's supposed to make him defend his diagnostic methods to keep patients from getting hurt and she's supposed to threaten him just enough that he doesn't get too reckless, but she's not supposed to care about him like this. She's not supposed to care _for _him. Because then their relationship becomes personal and he knows exactly what he will do if that happens.

"Enjoying the view?" Cuddy quips.

"Always," House answers, sounding more thunderstruck than he really is.

Cuddy's eyebrows jump. "I suppose I don't have to ask how you're feeling, then."

House gives her his best lecherous leer, but he still looks sleepy. She shuts him down by turning into his doctor. House glowers at both the idea and the fact of Cuddy the Clinician, but lets her get on with the exam.

"I'm ready to get out of here," he says in between deep breaths as Cuddy listens to his lungs.

She stops and stares at him. "House—"

"To the step-down unit," House clarifies before she can begin sputtering. She's always one comment away from sputtering.

Yet he notices approval in her face, as much as she tries to disguise it. Good. He wants her to approve of him leaving this floor.

"You're fever's been gone for about six hours," she says at length. "BP's still elevated, but it's been dropping steadily."

She stops again and eyes him seriously. House squirms. "Kutner said you were up and around last night."

He breaks the eye contact he'd been keeping with her. He despises this absolute lack of privacy.

"Bet he said more than that," House mutters, flexing the toes of his left foot. He watches the movement. Not even the illusion of privacy.

"Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow," Cuddy says sympathetically. "We'll see what Foreman says. He's on his way."

House shifts restlessly—more toe flexing, limb stretching, anything he can do easily—to express his annoyance. He wants to be somewhere else. He wants yesterday and the day before that to un-happen. He wants to go back to 5:23 p.m. when he left work and ride past the bar to his apartment and get stinking drunk there, by himself, where no one else will be near him. He bangs a fist against the bed.

Cuddy misreads him. "What you've been through in the past few days—you have to give yourself some time," she advises gently.

"I know that," House snaps, kicking the footrest with less force than he'd like. He knows he's acting irrationally, that his thoughts are irrational. He's not sure where they're coming from or why he's giving them voice in front of Cuddy. When he realizes he's not fully in control of what's he's saying and how he's feeling, he only gets angrier.

"Where's Foreman?" he growls, kicking the bed again. "Shouldn't he be here by now? What else has he got to do?"

If Cuddy answers, House doesn't hear her. He's busy.

Why did Kutner have to mention Wilson? Wilson hates him and for some reason, House can't stand it.

Amber told him he deserved Wilson's hatred. Some of it. He'd thought she was right then, but now he knows that was just his near-death-experience soft side coming out. No, he doesn't deserve any hatred. He worked himself into what will likely be a week-long hospital stay to try to save her. He didn't ask her to come pick him up. He didn't ask her to be attractive and smart and challenging.

He hates these repetitive thoughts. Hates that he can't do anything to stop them. He kicks the footrest again.

He's not going to acknowledge it now, but he knows, just like he'd told her on the bus, that in a universe governed by fair moral law, he'd be dead and she'd be alive. He's not going to acknowledge it because he somehow survived and he must continue to survive. Because he chose to survive. And because in a fair moral universe, he wouldn't have lost Stacy to bad decisions and debilitating pain.

No such universe, of course. That thought hurts him more than he'll ever understand. He doesn't like being hurt. Doesn't like being powerless. So he's bitter. Bitter to no end.

He's boring himself. But he can't stop his thoughts.

Just like he can't stop Wilson from hating him. But he can thicken the calluses that protect him from hurting more than he has to.

A hand on his shoulder shakes him to the present.

"House?"

Cuddy's genuine, desperate concern.

He must protect himself from that. He shrugs her hand off.

"Didn't you page Foreman?" he grumbles, picking at the blanket.

"He's on his way," Cuddy answers.

House doesn't listen. His mind is stuck in a groove, skipping over the same thoughts about what he'd done and not done, and who deserved what amount of blame.

His thoughts roil. Quietly he seethes.

* * *

While he's preoccupied, Cuddy observes him. Physically, he's progressing, but he hadn't responded when she'd called his name. If he didn't have a crack in his skull, she'd think he was simply engulfed in the diagnostic process that enables him to make the leaps that save so many patients. But he has no one to diagnose and the crack in his skull is very real.

He's upset about something. His body language and the monitors he's hooked up to tell her that much. She knows she's got almost no chance of getting him to speak candidly about what's bothering him, so she tries to bring him back to the present.

"Want anything special for breakfast?" she asks.

He shakes his head. He's not coming out of his shell that easily.

Long moments pass. He moves his lips like he's talking to someone she can't see. Another hallucination?

She waves a hand in his eye line to get his attention. He turns his head to her, glaring.

"You seemed to be hallucinating," she explains.

"I wasn't," he answers gruffly and turns his head to face forward. No smart remark. Just a dismissal.

Time stretches out while she watches him think. At least, she hopes he's thinking. She hopes he's not lying about symptoms. She's too involved in this to be objective about what's good for him, she knows. That's why she called Foreman, the only person who knows House but who can still be objective about him.

She's beginning to wonder where Foreman is when she hears House take a breath.

"You've seen Wilson?"

It's more of a statement than it is a question. His eyes flicker furtively to hers as he speaks.

She's not sure how to react or what he's really asking, just that she must avoid upsetting him. His health is too precarious right now. She clears her face of emotion.

"What do you want to know?" she asks.

She notices that he's taken the tail of the blanket between his thumb and forefinger and he's working it back and forth. Whatever it is he wants to know, she doesn't think he'll make it clear.

He seems not to have heard her. Lost in thought.

"Nothing," he answers vacantly, staring at the blanket.

She could tell him so much. She wants to tell him so much. But this is between him and Wilson, and her job right now is to keep him calm. She remains silent. She isn't any more comfortable with intimate emotional relationships than House is. Too much raw human vulnerability hangs between them. Instinct tells her to bolt. Instead, she stays, standing next to him, and waits, hoping she doesn't screw this up.

She's just about to page Foreman again when he arrives.

House shakes out of his funk, but he doesn't have any crass comment about Foreman taking so long. In fact, not only does he not provoke Foreman, he actually complies with Foreman's battery of assessments. He's still preoccupied.

Cuddy wonders what's going on in his head. He'd been so normal when he woke up. House is always prone to mood swings, so she can't tell if this is the head injury or if he's just acting like himself. She leans toward the latter. Because she wants him to be okay. Whatever his complicity in Amber's death, he shouldn't have to lose part of himself.

She contemplates the events, standing back while Foreman does his job.

Ten minutes later, Foreman tells House he's progressing well, asks if he has questions, and leaves him to his newly-arrived breakfast. Cuddy waits until House has dug into his food to catch up with Foreman.

Foreman tells her the same thing he told House. He adds that House seemed distracted and asks why, but she's got no answer for him. He agrees that House can be moved out of the ICU this afternoon if he has a good morning.

House is stirring eggs on a tray of half-eaten breakfast when she returns. Four small plastic pill cups share the tray, each empty. Like any other patient, he's trying to get well.

"What did the big boss say?" he asks, cutting into her thoughts, but his voice lacks the playful tone she's used to.

"We'll see how you do this morning and make a decision after lunch," she answers.

He nods, still poking the eggs.

She wants to ask if his stomach is bothering him, but she knows better. His body needs time. And he hates those questions. They only distance him further.

She settles into the chair again and picks up the paperwork she'd been doing before he woke up. Through all of this, she's managed to avoid thinking very much about what's happened between House and Wilson. Like House, she works to avoid having to spend time with herself. She won't really think about what's happened until she can no longer avoid it.

House drops the fork, pushes the tray away, and sighs. Cuddy looks up at him, asking what's wrong without speaking.

His expression is serious. Troubled. Annoyed. Frustrated.

"Are we gonna do it?" he asks flatly.

Cuddy stares at him, mouth agape.

She fumbles for words—what exactly does he mean?—and begins, "By 'it' I assume you mean—"

"Because if we're not," House interrupts, "why are you still here?"

He's almost sneering.

"House—I—" She's absolutely at a loss. "You—"

"Yes or no, Cuddy," he says adamantly. "Are we going to do it? Sometime soon?"

Her mouth works silently for a moment before she answers. "No."

"Then why are you hovering over me like you're going to get something out of it when I'm better?" he asks.

He's still serious. Almost desperately so. He doesn't understand that…

"House, I can care about you without wanting to 'do it' with you," she explains.

House clenches his jaw, as if he doesn't want to say any of this. As if it's coming out of him against his will.

"You don't have to be here. You're only here because Wilson's not here," he snarls. Now he's deadly serious.

She doesn't know what to say to that. Because it's true. Partially. But this is easier than his earlier question because she's already decided that he and Wilson are going to have to work this out on their own.

She retreats behind a mask of indifference. "_Someone_ has to watch your ass," she says sarcastically. If they can just fall back into the old pattern of tit-for-tat banter…

But House looks down. He doesn't challenge her. Doesn't answer her.

"He's mad at me," House mumbles, blanket between his fingers again.

She studies him. He's withdrawing, speaking to himself, probably self-pitying, but he's still serious. She sees the same touch of desperation. But there's not much she can do about it.

"You're going to have to talk to him," she offers lamely.

He shifts every limb again, grinds his teeth. He's restless. Upset. He's skipping all over the mood map, from confrontational, to desirous, to frightened, to angry, and probably a dozen other emotions. She decides such quick, intense mood shifts are out of character even for him.

But still, there's not much she can do. So she waits. For him to say more or settle down. For something to happen. She pretends to do the work she has.

But he keeps fidgeting and his vitals, which have been increasing for the past five minutes, continue to climb. She's got to do something.

So she asks, in the gentlest tone she can manage, "Why is he mad at you?"

House glares at her with such spite, she's a little shaken. His expression suggests he thinks she's mocking him. That she knows exactly what he's talking about. Paranoia. Not uncommon for House, but this is excessive.

She decides she must tell him what she knows. In those rare moments of vulnerability, he appreciates honesty above all else. He expects honesty. Because he trusts.

"House, I don't know what happened in the O.R.," she says. "Wilson hasn't told me; Chase hasn't told me. I haven't asked them to tell me. I hadn't planned to ask them. I'm not asking _you _to tell me."

She watches him to ensure he understands just how hands-off she's trying to be. That she doesn't want to interfere.

"I want to help if I can," she continues. "But more than anything else, I want you out of my ICU, so you need to tell me how to reduce your stress right now." She smiles wanly. "And don't tell me there's nothing I can do."

She expects him to leer, to suggest that she do something sexual for him, but he simply stares at her.

His face reflects nothing. He's blank. All of the emotions swirling in his eyes, distorting his face earlier—they're gone.

He stares for what must be half a minute, then he turns away from her, on to his side.

When she goes to the other side of the bed, she finds that his eyes are closed.

Eventually his vitals stabilize. She hopes he's asleep. She doesn't know what else to do.


	13. Sleep

**Sleep**

Miles from the hospital, Wilson dreams.

He dreams they're somewhere else, he and Amber, in a cabin near an ocean or a forest. Vacationing. Alone but together.

She's happy. Laughing. Relaxed. So is he.

Then dream-time skips and they're making out. He wants her. Needs her. Her face reflects the same desire. Candle light. Somewhere rustic and romantic.

It's a good dream until it skips again.

She's sitting next to him on the couch. Their apartment. Her face is serious.

She's calm. He's frantic.

"I don't want you to blame him," she says. She's so calm she might be dead.

Wilson yells. It's his fault, the selfish bastard.

She smiles. "He's an ass," she agrees. "Blame him for that. But not for what happened to me."

He's so angry, he's crying.

"You were sleeping with him," he accuses. He hates himself for saying such a thing. For thinking she's guilty.

"He wishes," she says, still smiling. It's a genuine smile. She's not mocking him.

But he keeps crying, keeps hating himself.

"He didn't picture you naked," Wilson explains. "He had feelings for you."

Amber shrugs. "I had feelings for him. But not the same feelings I have for you."

Wilson's cried himself into hiccups. "You went to pick him up."

She shrugs again. "I was toying with him. You know it's fun to toy with him. You do it all the time."

"But he's not attracted to _me_," Wilson replies.

"I'm not attracted to him," she says. And smiles.

She can't mean that, he thinks.

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, I am kind of attracted to him," she says. "But not like I'm attracted to you."

He's not so angry now. Not so sad. "So you didn't do anything with him…"

Her eyes roll again. "If you didn't believe me the first time…" She cups his chin, wiping away a tear with her thumb. "I didn't do anything with him. I love _you_."

He looks away.

"You have to trust me," she continues.

He betrays her with his thoughts. He does trust her. But not completely.

When he looks back, she's gone. The couch is empty.

The dream skips and he sees her at House's apartment on House's couch making out with House.

He's paralyzed. Can't move. Can't speak. Can't do anything but watch.

He jolts awake. Sweat cooling on his body makes his flesh ripple.

It's so real, the dream, that for a moment he thinks Amber's at House's apartment right now, cheating on him, and he's both crushed and murderously angry.

Then reality kicks him in the chest and he wants to hurt himself for ever thinking she'd do that to him. For ever doubting her.

He buries his face in the couch cushion, biting his lip, hating the tears he feels building up. He doesn't want to cry any more. But the apartment is so oppressively still.

He'd never asked her what she felt about House. He'd been unwilling to bring the topic of House into their lives at all. But he'd had his suspicions, and he'd had the end of that dream before: forced to watch while Amber did things with House that he did not want to see.

He feels horrible. His head hurts. He's hungry. He's empty.

He hates that dream. He wants to hate, not to cry, but he can't stop himself from crying.

He turns his head away from the pillow and blinks through tears to look at the time. Ten a.m. Over an hour since Cuddy's most recent tea and sympathy visit. He has two more hours to survive before he goes to see his therapist.

He's thankful his therapist was willing to squeeze him in today. He doesn't want to talk, but he realizes that he needs to. And he needs to get back on the SSRI he quit last month when everything in his life had been going so well. He needs a heavy dose of an effective SSRI.

Because he can't stand to feel this way any longer. It hurts too much. He doesn't want to hurt anymore. He can't take it.

At first, it had felt right to hurt, especially after he'd been so numb. He'd needed to hurt. He'd always told his patients and their families that it's natural. Part of the process. That it meant the grievers cared about the deceased.

He doesn't care if any of that is true now. All he wants is for the pain to stop.

And he wants to sleep. He wants to give her a good ceremony and then he wants to sleep for a long time. He wants to have good dreams about her, but most of all, he wants to avoid having to live without her. If this is what it's like, then he can't do it.

He knows he'll feel better once he's back on an SSRI. He's sorry that he can't stand to hurt any longer because it feels like a betrayal, but he thinks that she would tell him it's stupid to suffer needlessly.

He forces himself to get up. He needs to shower and eat before he leaves.

It'll be the first time he leaves the apartment knowing that it will be empty when he returns.

He pushes that thought away. He's got to meet with the funeral director later today to make choices about the ceremony. He's got to have his head together.

Her clothes hang next to his in the closet.

He makes himself breathe and choose clean clothes for himself.

He tells himself that he's going to get through this.

* * *

House sleeps fitfully through the morning. Nurses wake him. Foreman wakes him. Each time, he closes his eyes and relaxes, and his traumatized body switches his brain off.

Sleep will come easily for another day at least, he knows. His body needs to the time to repair itself and he's more than content to take leave of reality for a while.

So when the person shaking his shoulder won't go away even after he assures the person that he's responsive by muttering sleepy curses and complaints that he needs his sleep, he's not happy to wake up.

Thirteen's no-nonsense expression greets him.

House swats her hand from his shoulder, blinking heavily. "Whadda you want?"

"Lunch time," she says perfunctorily. He notices the tray of steaming containers.

"I was asleep," he grumbles. But he reaches for the plastic pill cups next to the food. His Vicodin's there.

Now it's Thirteen's turn to swat his hand.

"Eat first," she commands.

House wants to grumble that he's not hungry, but for once decides that arguing won't do any good. He peels tops from containers and pokes a plastic spoon at the first thing he sees.

"Why are you here?" he mumbles around tasteless lumps of food-like substance.

Not that he cares. Not about Thirteen's motives or anyone else's motives. He's just tired of them baby-sitting him. He doesn't understand why they're doing it. He's never needed kid glove treatment before and he doesn't need it now.

When she doesn't answer, he gestures aimlessly with the spoon. "There are nurses…"

Thirteen bristles. "Some people like to see familiar faces after they almost die."

House swallows with disgust. "I strike you as that sort of person?"

She doesn't reply. They both know the question is rhetorical. But she fidgets, perched on the edge of the sleeper chair. He knows she's got something else on her mind, but he ignores her. Concentrates instead on keeping the slop he's eating from climbing back up his esophagus. He really wasn't hungry.

And he's not so good at concentrating right now. He can't shut her nervous movements out. He's ready to snap at her to be still when she speaks.

"Why'd you do it?"

Is everyone going to ask him some variation of this question? He pokes the slop forcefully, teeth clenched.

"You cared about her," Thirteen continues, "and you let that interfere with your judgment, but you care about yourself more." She leans forward, hands fluttering. "So why did you risk your life when you knew almost nothing would help her?"

The way she says it, it's almost an accusation of carelessness.

"Almost nothing isn't nothing," House murmurs, but the words are meaningless to him.

He takes a breath and plants the spoon like a flag in the middle of the plate. "This stuff's making me nauseous," he announces. He requests ten milligrams metoclopramide.

Thirteen's wary, hesitant, unbelieving. House makes a face and swallows, absolutely for show, but still she leaves reluctantly.

He doesn't care if she thinks he's dodging her question. He doesn't owe her an explanation. He doesn't owe anyone anything.

And he doesn't want to think about what she's said. She's given him nothing new to mull over. Nothing new at all.

He swallows again. He always gets the worst hospital food.

He closes his eyes. He's not going to think. He's going to go back to sleep. Metoclopramide will settle his stomach and make him drowsy, the Vicodin he sees waiting in plastic pill cup number three will make him drowsier, and his body's natural reaction to head trauma will take care of the rest. He won't have to talk Thirteen or anyone else.

She returns with another plastic pill cup and he downs its contents and the half-dozen other pills in front of him in one go. He chugs the full glass of water that accompany them, too. He's a good patient.

He pushes the tray away and searches for a more comfortable position to sleep in, ignoring the way she's standing over him.

He's settled and ready to close his eyes when a strip of crumpled paper appears in front of him.

Thirteen is unreadable. House takes the paper. The line of red print catches his attention. So she finally tested herself.

He hands the paper back.

"I'm sorry."

He means it. He's not sorry he pushed her to get tested. She should know. But he is sorry to see the results.

"You shouldn't gamble your life for nothing," Thirteen says, but this time the vitriol is missing.

"Almost nothing," House corrects softly.

He closes his eyes again. He's not going to think about anything.

He hears Thirteen leaving.

And very quietly, so that he almost can't hear it, she says, "Get better."

He tamps down the part of him that wants to feel warmed by her comment. He's not going to think and he's not going to feel. He's going to sleep. Nothing else. Just sleep.


	14. Scare

**Scare**

"House."

Bright light. He tries to turn away.

"House."

Fingers pressed against his jaw, holding it in place. The light again. He can't turn away.

"House."

Foreman.

"Can you hear me?"

Yes.

But he can't speak. Can't make his eyes move. Can't move his arms.

He's aware and able to think. But he can't express himself.

"Sorry. I have to do this."

Hard grinding pressure against his sternum.

House yelps. And suddenly, as though he'd been held underwater to the point of drowning and then released, he takes a deep breath, blinks, and reaches for his chest.

"Ow, what the hell?" he complains.

He sees Foreman sigh with frustration: that expression, 'glad you're back, but what took so long and why'd you make me hurt you?'

"Do you know where you are?" Foreman asks.

"Yes, I know where I am," House grouses, rubbing his aching sternum. He hates Foreman's pandering. Foreman's condescension.

And right now he hates Foreman's doubtful expression: _are you sure?_

House rolls his eyes and growls, "I'm in Hell and you're torturing me." He groans dramatically. "You _had_ to do this?" he says, rubbing his chest for effect, "you couldn't have just pinched me?"

Foreman continues to condescend. "What's the last thing you remember?"

House wants to punch the smugness out of him. He's tired of these neurological assessments. He'd been doing just fine before Foreman showed up.

"Lunch," House answers tightly. "Thirteen was here."

Foreman's eyebrows jump. At the same time, House notices wetness—the sheets, his legs, his butt.

"What the hell?" he shouts, as if he'd been stung, and lifts the sheets.

He looks at Foreman. Foreman did this. House isn't sure how, but he knows it's Foreman's fault.

"What's going on?" House yells.

"Calm down," Foreman instructs.

Smug, arrogant—

"You're sure you don't remember anything after lunch?"

House stares indignantly at him. "No, I don't," he says. "You'd better—"

"You've been seizing," Foreman explains. "Three complex partial seizures."

House gapes. Foreman's lying. He has to be lying.

Foreman gestures toward the wet sheets. "You were complaining about that when you had another one. You came out of it and you were oriented, but then you became unresponsive. Hence—" He gestures to House's chest.

House absently touches his sternum. Something's wrong.

"You were lucid, oriented, and responsive between each of them," Foreman continues. "But you don't remember that?"

House shakes his head. His head is bothering him more now than it has in at least a day. Someone must have hit him again. Some trauma must have occurred.

"What are you not telling me?" House asks dangerously. He doesn't trust Foreman. Not at all.

Foreman expresses some surprise. "Nothing." He observes House more closely. "You're agitated. You were agitated earlier. It's a symptom."

"I'm agitated because something else happened and you're not telling me what it is," House yells.

Foreman's not going to tell him, he realizes. But it should be on his chart. Unless Cuddy's in league with Foreman. He can't stay here. They're doing things to him that he doesn't remember.

He's sitting up and pulling the sheets back when Foreman's hands push his shoulders back.

"You need to calm down," Foreman says. "Agitation and aggression are common after a head injury. You know that. You just had three seizures in the past ten minutes. You need to relax and stay here so we can monitor you."

House doesn't believe any of it. He struggles against Foreman, who's remarkably strong. This isn't right.

"Get Dr. Cuddy," Foreman yells as a nurse carrying clean linens enters the room. She nods and vanishes.

So Cuddy _is_ in on it. House tries to pry Foreman's hands off of his shoulders, tries to shake his hands off, tries to kick him, tries everything he can think of to get Foreman to let him go. He launches strings of curses at Foreman, pulling out everything he learned as a kid surrounded by Marines.

"House, you're going to hurt yourself," Foreman cautions. "Your vitals are spiking. You're going to start bleeding again."

Foreman's lying. Manipulating. He wants a docile patient he can control.

Suddenly rage vanishes and terror grips House in its place. He's not safe here. They're going to hurt him. They're going to cut off his leg. They're going to punish him for letting Amber die.

It's already happening, he realizes, because his left arm won't move. His left shoulder won't move. His left side's completely unresponsive. Unilateral paralysis and now they're going to take his leg, too.

This has happened before. He's sure of it. He's certain this happened earlier.

Suddenly he can't stop swallowing. And instead of fighting Foreman, he's patting Foreman's arm with his right hand.

Now he's sure this isn't happening at all. It's some bizarre hallucination that he can't trick his mind out of. He took Morpheus's red pill.

_Welcome to the desert of the real_.

Everything stops. He knows Foreman's still talking, but whoever has the remote has pressed the 'mute' button. His hand pats Foreman's arm and he swallows again and again.

He realizes what's happening. He's having another complex partial seizure. The unilateral paralysis. The simple motor automatisms. Increased muscle tone on his right side, nearing rigidity—

—And then it stops and he's in control again. All tone leaves his muscles and he collapses.

--

He blinks at Foreman, who's got this worried look on his face like something bad has just happened.

He's so tired for just having woken up.

Wait. What just happened? He feels like something's just happened. Something he should remember.

"House?"

He blinks at Foreman. Yeah?

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," House says. He's hoarse. Why's he hoarse?

He notices cold wetness around his— like he's peed the—

And his breastbone aches, like someone has—

"What happened?" he asks Foreman.

Foreman's trying not to look worried, but House notices that something is wrong.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Foreman asks.

House thinks. "Lunch," he answers. "Thirteen was here."

Foreman nods. "Okay."

House doesn't like this at all. Something's going on.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"You've been having seizures," Foreman answers. "Complex partial with unilateral weakness. Aggression and agitation, and short-term amnesia. Do you remember any of this?"

House shakes his head. He remembers waking up a moment ago with Foreman looking worriedly at him.

He makes fists with both hands, concentrating on the left side. He moves his foot and leg, wiggles his toes, winks his left eye.

Foreman watches the self-assessment. "Good," he says.

House looks back at him, feeling not a little frightened, even though his left side seems fine. "How many?" he asks.

"Four," Foreman answers.

House stares at the wet spot he can feel but not see. "I don't remember."

Foreman smiles. "Your fracture involved the temporal lobe," he says. "This type of seizure is to be expected."

House wants to snap that he knows that, but he stares at the wet spot instead. "I was on 800 milligrams carbamazepine last time I checked. You've increased it?"

Foreman nods. "You had another 200 five minutes ago."

House nods. He wants to ask other questions—how did it start? how long has it been going on?—but he doesn't want Foreman to know he's scared.

He listens while Foreman tells him about scheduling a CT to check for worsening edema and twenty-four hours of EEG monitoring to determine whether he's been seizing in his sleep. He nods absently. This type of seizure is common after an injury like his, he knows that. And the seizure he had in the O.R. made him much more susceptible to additional seizures. That this isn't a surprise. He knows he's been getting off lightly so far given how much he's taxed his body. And adding carbamazepine to his daily Vicodin regimen wouldn't interfere with his life…

…but seizures aren't hallucinations. They don't provide any clues. They're just interruptions in his brain. And he has even less control over them than he does over how far he can walk on any given day.

Without warning, he envisions himself chewing, twitching, swimming during a differential. Or interacting normally only to wake up missing a minute or two, with his team staring at him. Or simply blinking at them and them leaving without noticing the absence seizure.

The procedures he shouldn't perform if this keeps up…

And then the worst: if this happens while he's in the middle of a life-saving leap. If this keeps him from seeing the connections he needs to see. If this results in short-term memory loss.

No. He won't think about these things.

He looks at Foreman, who's watching him, and does his best to appear unfazed. "Is there some reason I'm still sitting in…"

He trails off because Cuddy has appeared without him noticing her arrival. She just came in…didn't she?

Exactly how many seizures did he have before Foreman took notice? Foreman said he saw four. But how many before that? How many in his sleep?

"What's up?" Cuddy asks, looking from House to Foreman and back.

House has no idea why she's here. He realizes the question shows on his face when Foreman answers.

"You were combative," Foreman tells him.

House just stares blankly. He doesn't remember being combative. All he remembers is going to sleep after lunch, after Thirteen showed him her test results.

He realizes he doesn't know what time it is—or what day it is, though he assumes it's still the same day he ate lunch with Thirteen baby-sitting.

He fights panic. He can't deal with memory loss. Especially not with Foreman and Cuddy lurking and frigid, wet sheets.

He spies a nurse with dry sheets trying to be inconspicuous, so he shoos Cuddy and Foreman away. He doesn't want to face them right now, doesn't want to answer their questions. And it's clear they need to talk amongst themselves. He feels left out, betrayed by his own body. But that's not a new feeling.

He watches Cuddy and Foreman talk beyond the glass while the nurses work around him. Cuddy doesn't hide her reaction well—he sees her mouth move, "Four?"—but she tries to look less worried when she sees him watching.

He makes himself think about something other than the looming possibility of post traumatic epilepsy.

His bike. It's still at the bar. Because Wilson had driven him to the bar because he didn't have a bike to ride there or a car to drive and because he shouldn't operate a vehicle so soon after a head injury. It's probably been stolen or towed by now. He's a little surprised it hasn't been stolen yet in the two years he's had it.

If this keeps up, these seizures, he shouldn't ride it again. His car, maybe. He can justify driving. He's protected by a steel cage. But on a bike, he needs only a second to lose his balance and then he goes down and cracks his head again because he doesn't always wear his helmet.

Of course, he really shouldn't drive his car either. And with no Wilson to drive him home once he's finally released from here, it'll have to be a taxi.

Except he hates wasting money on taxis.

That leaves the bus.

The bus.

He tells himself the bus means nothing. That he can take the bus without it crashing again for the rest of his life. That he's at greater risk of crashing his bike or his car than he is of being in another bus crash.

He can stand riding the bus. He can do it. It would be irrational not to take the bus.

And anyway, the chances of him developing post traumatic epilepsy are…

Well, there's no way to know.

Cuddy and Foreman are coming back.

Cuddy places a hand on his arm. Patting him. With an expression of sympathy that he hates.

"Maybe tomorrow," she says.

Maybe tomorrow he'll get to leave the ICU. That's what she means.

He looks away. The sympathy practically oozing from her face disgusts him.

Foreman holds out two fingers of each hand. "Squeeze."

House sighs dramatically. He doesn't want to sit through another one of these. He doesn't want to know if he's lost some motor function.

But he squeezes Foreman's fingers anyway. Because he has to know.

Cuddy's hand rests gently on his shoulder. "I've got to go," she says tenderly.

Tenderly?

No. House frowns. Cuddy isn't tender. He doesn't take tender from Cuddy.

"I'll see you later."

He avoids looking at her. He doesn't need sympathy or tenderness. He doesn't need anything.

Foreman's thorough. Too thorough even for House's liking, because right now, he's the patient and he's tired.

Because seizures strain the brain, alter the chemistry and electricity. Because they're exhausting and he just wants Foreman to go away.

Foreman says he'll be back to set up the EEG. House nods once so Foreman won't question his level of consciousness and curls up on his side. He wants to feel like he can protect himself. That he's autonomous. That he's not an adult who just pissed his bed and can't remember what happened earlier today.

He wants to feel healthy. To feel unafraid.

He hates himself for feeling so vulnerable. For being so weak.

For being thankful it's so easy to fall asleep right now so that he won't have to think.


	15. Resilience

**Resilience**

When Wilson opens the door just after seven, Cuddy's amazed at how different he looks. He motions her in with such energy. He's no longer the zombie who's greeted her the past two days. Whatever he did over lunch that made him call and cancel with her, it's working.

She notices three piles of clothes on the couch. Three piles of shoes on the floor. Three more piles of accessories—hats, scarves, gloves.

All the while, Wilson's taking the food she brought and talking.

"Thank you for coming," he says, as though he'd invited her over. "I've been sorting through her things," he says. "The funeral director gave information about a women's shelter that always needs donations."

He speaks so quickly that she can't get a word in until he stops.

"Great," she says, not sure how she should react. It's as if Wilson's on the manic side of bi-polar disorder.

"You look much better," she tells him.

His head bobs affirmatively. "I feel better," he says. "Saw my therapist. Talked." He nods to a prescription bottle on the kitchen table.

Cuddy nods slowly, curious about the contents of that bottle. Nothing routinely prescribed by a psychiatrist would elevate his mood so quickly. He's almost giddy.

"You seem kind of…wired," she says, carefully choosing her words. She doesn't want to ruin his mood, but he's not acting normally. "Are you okay?"

Wilson seems confused for a moment—but only a moment. "Coffee," he explains. "I was getting sleepy—" he gestures toward the pills, "—and I knew you'd be coming by, and since I haven't had any since…" He looks away, hand on his neck, fidgeting. He shrugs. "I am kind of wired."

Cuddy nods and smiles. He seems all right. The apartment is cleaner than it's been since she's been coming to see him. No dishes in the sink. Everything seems tidy except for the clothes on the couch.

"That's good," Cuddy says lamely.

But Wilson's already moved on to setting the table. She wonders how much coffee he's had.

"I want to thank you for doing this," Wilson says as he distributes places and silverware. "You didn't have to, and I was in rough state. I was rude to you. But it was nice to know that someone cared, and I want you to know that I really appreciated it."

Wilson's rambling. Cuddy's not sure whether she can get more uncomfortable. This situation makes House's question this morning about whether they were going to "do it" seem like a warm blanket on a cold day.

"You're welcome," she says, trying not to sound embarrassed. She wants to tell him he was never really that rude, but she'd rather let the subject drop.

Wilson doesn't seem to notice her discomfort. "I went to the store, so I have drinks now," he says. "Can I offer you wine…or a beer?"

"Ah…water's fine," Cuddy responds.

"I thought about cooking," Wilson says, "since I knew you were coming."

Cuddy shrugs, not sure what to make of this information. "…You didn't have to do that," she says. Since he didn't do that, her comment makes no sense, but he's not really tuned in to her and she feels like she has to say something.

They sit down and Wilson seems overly excited about the kung pao chicken and steamed vegetables she's brought.

Cuddy just smiles awkwardly. She's happy that he seems so much better, but she fears her initial impression of Wilson as manic is correct and that he'll swing back to depressive soon.

Wilson stops chattering long enough for Cuddy to pay attention to him again. He's gone from eating and talking to playing with his fork and sitting quietly.

He takes a deep breath. "The funeral's on Saturday," he says. "Two o'clock. The visitation will be tomorrow night. Seven."

Cuddy watches him push a piece of chicken in a circle.

"I found her parents," he says. "They didn't know who I was and they didn't believe me until I faxed the death certificate. But they're going to come."

She waits, not sure if he's said everything he wants to say. When he spears the piece of chicken and brings it to his mouth, she speaks.

"Who do you want me to tell?" she asks.

Wilson shrugs, chewing. "She didn't seem to miss Kutner, Taub, and Hadley much, but if they want to come, they should. It's going to be small."

She can tell he's bothered by that fact, but he soldiers on through the chicken. Cuddy doesn't taste her own food any longer. Eating is nothing but an means to avoid talking right now.

Because she'd given him the opportunity to mention House and he hadn't done it.

Another five minutes of painful silence passes before the food has been eaten and Cuddy feels she can leave.

Wilson's putting the leftovers away when he stops, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open.

His face is conflicted. Tense.

"I…don't think…I want him to come." He closes the door. "I don't think he would come, except that he usually does the opposite of what I expect him to do, so…"

He stares at the floor.

He looks so embarrassed that Cuddy feels for him. "No need to worry," she says, softly and a little sadly. "He won't be able to come."

Wilson looks up slowly. Confused. "Did something happen?"

For a moment, Cuddy's amazed at Wilson's assumptions. Amazed that he thinks House would be released in time for the funeral.

"He let Chase drill a hole in his head and fry his brain," she says flatly.

Wilson's not impressed by her tone. "But he's okay?"

Cuddy shrugs. "He's improving. Slowly."

She doesn't feel any need to volunteer information. Not when Wilson had assumed House had suffered no consequences.

He wants to know more—or he wants an assurance that House really is fine—but she can see him controlling that impulse. Whatever happened between them, it's gone deep.

Instead, he nods slowly. "I think I'll be okay tomorrow morning," he says at length. "But I'll see you tomorrow night?"

"Sure," Cuddy replies.

And she's out the door, telling herself again that she's going to stay out of this. That it's not her business. That she's not going to be angry with Wilson for being so callous. Because he has a good excuse.

Yet she's still upset when she stops to pick up more Chinese food before returning to the hospital.

* * *

House is asleep in the same position he's occupied for the past two days when she approaches. But now he's got EEG wires meandering around his head and a monitor displaying brain waves perched above him.

Cuddy wonders how Wilson would react to this image as she makes as much noise as possible, moving the tray and crumpling the take-out bag, to give House time to wake up.

She watches beta waves turn to alpha waves, but he remains still.

"House," she says at normal volume.

He's not going to play possum with her. He's been sleeping all day, he slept all night last night, but he hasn't been eating much. She's hoping against reason that it's only because he doesn't like the food.

"House—"

"'m sleepin'," House mumbles.

Cuddy opens one of the boxes and wafts the smell toward him.

"N' hungry."

She plops the box back on the tray, squares her shoulders, and issues an ultimatum. "I'm not going to leave you alone until you eat, and you're a light sleeper. Do the math."

House sighs and scrubs his face. His eyes pop open and he glares at Cuddy.

"Orange chicken? So predictable."

But he explores the boxes without further complaint and begins mixing rice with meat.

Cuddy smiles—this time much more happily than she had at Wilson. She's been worried about House's emotional health all day. Even though he hasn't had a seizure in more than four hours, there's no way to predict whether they'll continue. He's doing well overall given everything that's happened to him, but she knows he's not satisfied with his progress. She knows he could slip into a serious depression over this.

But he's eating. She'll take that.

"You gonna babysit me tonight too?" House asked through chicken.

"No," Cuddy answers defensively, as if he has no right to ask that question. Because she wants to get back to normal with him.

"Finally got enough of me, huh?" House mumbles around his food.

"How could anyone ever get enough of you, House?" Cuddy answers dryly.

House merely grunts.

She drums fingers on the bed rail, just far enough away from him to avoid invading his personal space. He's seems better. Tomorrow morning, she thinks, he can go to the step-down ward. If the seizures don't get worse.

"It's weird," House says, snapping her out of her reverie.

"What's weird?"

"You standing there," House answers as he snags more chicken.

She stares at him. Not sure what to do.

House stops chewing. "That's even weirder."

She sighs and looks away. "The visitation is tomorrow evening."

"Visitation?" House leers. "Please say I can watch."

Cuddy scoffs, rolls eyes. "Wilson says he doesn't want you to go."

"Well, that's easy," House says, gesturing with a chopstick at the EEG leads.

Cuddy grabs the rail and holds on, rocking back slightly. "That's not the point."

House chews. "So what is?" he asks casually, almost dismissively.

_What happened between you two?_ Cuddy wants to ask. Because Wilson's behavior, while she doesn't expect it to be normal, can't be explained only by grief. Something else is going on. And even though she doesn't want to intervene, she thinks she may have to. Eventually. But not now.

She shrugs. "Nothing."

House returns to the food. Clearly, he doesn't want to press the issue.

There's nothing else for her to do here. She wants to tell him, _Good to see you eating_ or _You're looking better_, but there's no point in making either statement to House.

So she pats the rail and says "I'll see you tomorrow."

House ignores her. At length, she leaves.


	16. Visitation

**Visitation**

The visitation is as small as Wilson expects it to be, which disappoints him.

Her parents seem as indifferent in person as they did on the phone. He doesn't understand how anyone could be indifferent when their child lies in a casket in the next room, but he doesn't want to instigate any conflict, so he lets them dictate the conversation.

Oh, he's a doctor, too. That's to be expected. Mom is not impressed.

She was so wild in her youth, it's not surprising. Dad's not impressed either.

She was a good person. A good doctor. He's going to miss her terribly. But they're so flat emotionally, he's not sure his words register at all.

When Cuddy comes up to the three of them, he's more than happy to dump them off on her.

Hadley, Taub, and Kutner express their condolences one by one. Even Foreman has something to say.

But that's it. The room is nearly empty even though everyone has arrived. Wilson feels empty, too.

Her parents leave first. They don't give an excuse. Simply say they'll see him tomorrow.

Cuddy and Foreman follow shortly after, each offering a small gesture that makes him feel warm.

The trio of Kutner, Hadley, and Taub approaches him simultaneously. They're going to have dinner and drinks in her honor and they'd like him to come.

Wilson smiles and thanks them for thinking of her and of him. Part of him wants to go. He's hardly left the apartment in days. And he knows they'll do their best to cheer him up. Tell stories. Remember her as well as they can.

But he doesn't really know them. And there's something else he has to do.

So he thanks them and declines.

Kutner's brow furrows. "You okay?"

"Yes, thanks," Wilson replies, waving a dismissive hand. "I've got other plans, that's all."

Well, okay. They'll see him tomorrow.

Alone but for the funeral director, Wilson goes to see her again.

"I keep having that dream where you tell me that I shouldn't be mad at him," he says to her.

She may as well be sleeping; they've done a good job preparing her body.

"You're usually right, but it's hard for me to…"

He balls his fist and looks away. He's still angry, hurt, and betrayed, and he doesn't think those feelings are going to go away any time soon.

He tells her that.

"But," he adds, "I think you'd also tell me to go see him. And I think you'd be right."

He stares at her, wishing so much that she would sit up and talk to him. That she would be waiting for him at home. That he doesn't have to be alone.

He brushes fingers over her hair lightly, not wanting to feel her cold, dry skin.

"So I'm going to go do that now. But I'll see you tomorrow."

A tear slips out and runs down his nose.

"Did you see your mom and dad?" he asks shakily. "They were here. I can see why you weren't close. But at least they came. I hope you're okay with that."

He stares, blinking wet eyes, silently asking her to tell him this is all a big joke or a dream or something other than the reality that he's going to have to inhabit for the rest of his life.

"Okay," he says after a while. "I'm going to go visit House."

He touches her hair again, fingertips grazing dry strands.

"I miss you so much."

She isn't moving. She isn't going to move.

"I love you," he says.

When he leaves the room, the director's there with tissues. He says thanks, and that this is it for tonight.

In his car, the clock tells him the whole thing lasted less than an hour.

* * *

Wilson can see him sitting up in bed watching television from his position near the nurse's station.

He'd been surprised when Casey at the front desk had given him an ICU room number, and more relieved than he'd like to admit when the ICU nurses told him House had been moved to the step-down unit a few hours earlier.

He observes from a distance, wanting to know what sort of shape House is in before he enters the room. He notes the EEG, which he can't read from here, and the vitals monitor which he can read. And he notices a bandage above House's right ear that he doesn't recall seeing a few days ago.

He's curious—what's happened here?—but he doesn't request House's chart. Doesn't want to dilute the anger and frustration he feels, which is already so tempered by sadness that it may as well not exist.

Eventually, he goes to the door and knocks.

House looks over but his face shows nothing beyond a spark of recognition. Which is fine because Wilson doesn't need permission to enter.

House keeps his eyes fixed on the television until Wilson's standing next to his bed. Wilson can tell he's uncomfortable and that he wants to hide it. Good. He should be uncomfortable.

Though he wants to make House speak first, he knows just how adept House is at ignoring anything he doesn't want to deal with, and he doesn't want to stay long, so he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers and shifts his weight.

"What's with the EEG?" he asks. Best to start slowly. Because House isn't going to react if he unloads his feelings.

"Seizures," House answers gruffly. "Turns out having a hole drilled in your head less than a day after you split your skull open isn't such a good idea. Who knew?"

"Well," Wilson says wryly, "I'm sure this won't stop you from doing the same thing to your patients when you think it's necessary."

"And sometimes when I don't," House answers faintly.

He's refusing to look at Wilson. Wilson sets his teeth. He wants some sort of apology. Some acknowledgement that of House's culpability. _Something_. He knows House isn't going to give that to him—not in any direct way—but he's going to push for it nonetheless. And if he doesn't get it today, he's going to keep pushing for it.

"The funeral's tomorrow," Wilson says. Bluntness. Maybe that will elicit a response.

House nods. "Cuddy mentioned it."

And they fall back into tense silence.

Wilson's fists clinch tightly. He's sure he's turning red, but House isn't going to care. House won't even look at him.

Wilson realizes that he wants House to squirm. Wants him to hurt. Just a little. Because hurting just a little isn't going to do much damage to him, but it might teach him something.

But then he also knows he has no power over House right now. Nothing he can do will make House squirm. And yet, he can't leave. He needs…something.

"When are they gonna let you go?" Wilson asks.

House shrugs.

"Don't know or don't want to tell me?" Wilson says shortly.

It's not that he cares. It's that he has to talk about something. He has to settle something here and now. Because he's going to bury her tomorrow and he needs something from House.

As soon as the thought materializes, he realizes he's not going to get anything from House. He never does. What's changed for House?

"Don't know," House answers softly.

Wilson notices that he's fidgeting. Playing with the blanket. Seizures must scare the hell out of him. _Good_, Wilson thinks. Let him be scared.

But that thought and vindictiveness that accompanies it don't last. Because as much as Wilson wants him to be scared—because this sort of fear is the only thing that'll hurt him—Wilson doesn't really want House to feel small and helpless. He knows it's not a good feeling. And he's not fundamentally mean.

"Well…" Wilson begins, "you'll be all right. You always are."

House shrugs again. As if he too is totally indifferent.

Wilson bristles. Everyone around him either feigns sincerity or shows indifference. No one cares.

"I'm going to go bury my girlfriend," he says stiffly and stands there hoping House will say something he can react to. Even an acerbic comment would be better than nothing.

But House doesn't indicate he's even heard Wilson. Eyes on the television. What's worse, he's stopped fidgeting.

Wilson turns on his heel and walks out.


	17. Progression

**Progression**

House doesn't sleep for more than two hours after Wilson leaves. He'd known he wouldn't sleep much anyway, as his body had concluded its recuperative hibernation sometime before dinner, but Wilson had really tried to guilt-trip him. Now the garish hours between waking up in the strip club and waking up from the coma won't stop playing in his head.

The diagnosis, more than anything else, keeps him awake. That niggling question: did he do everything he could have done?

Self-doubt isn't his forte. He progresses from frustrated and annoyed to grumpy and gruff, until he's approaching absolutely unbearable.

Because Wilson wants him to apologize. Apologize for what? None of this was his fault.

But he just isn't certain of that.

Even television, usually his savior, doesn't help.

He wants to pace. To do laps around the floor. But the EEG wires and the fact that he's still so physically tired he has to have an escort to the toilet conspire to keep him in bed.

By the time shift change rolls around, he's a tightly coiled spring. As soon as the day shift charge nurse begins to admonish him about day-night reversal and depression, he snaps.

Shouts. Curses. He would throw things if he had anything to throw.

But for all the tension shouting relieves, he's no less frustrated and restless when Cuddy comes in and tells him not to yell at the nurses.

"You're causing trouble," she says with a wan smile, "you must be feeling better."

House grinds his teeth. His head hurts. He wants to sleep or to get drunk. Neither of those involves listening to Cuddy.

"I heard Wilson came to see you. Did you solve anything?"

"Yeah," House spits, "we ended the war, fixed the deficit, and fed all the starving children."

Cuddy reacts with sympathy instead of her usual vitriol. "It's going to take time."

House fixes an annoyed eye on her. "Don't you have some administrating to do?"

She crosses her arms, but still smiles. "You'll stop yelling at the nurses?"

"You'll let me go home?" House replies. He hates—_hates_—sympathy from her.

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe tomorrow," he parrots.

Cuddy sniffs at him and leaves.

House closes his eyes. He tells himself he's not going to let Wilson get to him.

But he knows better than that.

* * *

He dozes intermittently, glimpsing bits of soap operas he doesn't follow, until lunch. He eats like a good patient, then dozes until Foreman calls his name.

Twenty-four hours and no seizure activity. His EEG has been clean. Foreman sees no need to keep monitoring him.

House agrees. The multi-colored leads will go.

Foreman says he doesn't have to tell House that there's no way to know whether House will have another seizure.

House points out that Foreman told him despite saying he didn't have to tell him.

Foreman rolls his eyes and leaves.

House deplores the scripted nature of most hospital stays. Even though scripted means predictable, treatable, curable—all good things when he's the patient—he's no less bored by the script he's following.

After the leads are removed, House decides to go for a walk to test his strength. The sooner he can demonstrate to Cuddy that he'll be okay in his apartment, the sooner he'll be discharged.

He doesn't get a dozen steps from the door of his room before dizziness hits so strongly he thinks he might vomit or pass out. He's lucky someone spots him teetering and helps him to a bench, and even luckier that the person knows to press on his neck until his head's in his lap and tell him to breathe normally. He's lucky he doesn't smack his head against the bare floor, and he knows it.

When he can breathe again, he growls at the Samaritan and curses his damn head and the damn bus crash and every other damn thing that's happened.

His persistent protector—one of the floor nurses, oh how lucky—insists that he return to his room. By the time she's seen him back to bed, the muscles in his leg are howling about the fact that they haven't been exercised in a few days.

He's sweating as he begins massaging the muscles through scar tissue. He can see the damn bench from his room.

* * *

He realizes he's fallen asleep only after a vision of Kutner, whose lips are O-shaped around the "How" in his name, staggers into focus.

"What?" House barks, because his head hurts and his leg hurts and for a terrifying moment he's convinced he's had another seizure and he's lost hours or even days.

Kutner bends backward slightly in surprise, as if the snake he's been prodding has just struck near him.

House blinks, regaining his composure. From Kutner's goofy look, he surmises that he didn't just emerge from a seizure. Which means Kutner's just here to annoy him.

He presses the palm of his hand against the bridge of his nose. He's tired and he wants to be alone.

"What?" he repeats.

Kutner's shoved his hands in his pockets. In his suit pants pockets, House realizes.

"Just came to say hi," Kutner replies, cheery but also a little hurt. Like House has somehow spurned him.

"Hi," House says loudly. "Go away." Because Kutner's not going to take a hint.

"You look better," Kutner says.

House's eyes bug out. "Are you deaf? Or just masochistic?"

Kutner rocks on his heels. It's a near-exact copy of the aw-shucks move Wilson sometimes makes. Like a blushing prom date.

"Thought you might like to know that the funeral was good," Kutner says.

House stares openly. Was Cameron ever this bad? He can't recall—and he's sure that has nothing to do with memory loss and everything to do with repression.

"Well, now I know," House says. What else is there to say?

Satisfied that Kutner's done what he's come to do, House closes his eyes.

But Kutner doesn't leave.

"I also wanted to say—"

House's eyes pop open.

"—I think you'll be all right." Kutner does that neck rubbing thing Wilson does. "I mean, I know there's no way to be certain, but…"

No, Cameron was never this bad because Cameron was attractive and House could simply stare at her chest when he didn't want to listen.

"You're done talking now?" It isn't really a question.

Kutner shrugs and shuffles and awkwardly backs toward the door.

House's hand slips under the blanket to rub the sore muscles. A glance at the television tells him he won't get more meds for another hour.

He closes his eyes and begins making a list of the things he'd give for a fifth of whiskey right now.

* * *

Wilson sits in his apartment—just his apartment now, not theirs—still dressed for the funeral, sans coat, collar unbuttoned. He has only one picture of them together; it's in front of him. Next to it is a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Because the funeral was so small. Because no one else there actually cared for her. And because he wants to sleep.

He's at the point where the picture and everything around it shimmers and hums. He's a talkative drunk, so he talks to her.

"I don't know why, I just thought there'd be more people there," he says. The words slur as his tongue becomes thicker.

"That surely you'd made an impact on someone other than me."

The picture remains in its place.

"Don't say House because he doesn't care. I saw him last night and he doesn't even care.

"They didn't know you. That's all I can come up with.

"Because if they'd known you, it would've been different."

Wilson pours another shot's worth and drinks it straight. He needs it to work fast. No chaser, no ice, no tonic water.

He figures he's earned a few days of steady drinking. Just so he can pass the time without having to feel. The week or two until the SSRI kicks in and he won't need to drink.

"I'm sorry, this is the coward's way," he tells the picture, "but I can't stand missing you so much."

He feels like he's going to cry, but he's so sick of crying. He drinks quickly.

"You're gonna laugh at me when I wake up," he says. "You always laughed so much. How did you do that?"

_When you were so alone_.

He doesn't know why he doesn't say it. She's not here, he's uninhibited. But he doesn't say it.

Ten minutes later he tells her he's going to lie down. He's slumped over and snoring before he can get the words out.


	18. Days

**Days**

Two days later, House is stiffing a cab driver on a tip and hobbling happily to the privacy of his apartment.

Around the same time, Wilson's realizing binge drinking only makes the hours he's conscious hurt more.

Wilson chugs water and coffee to clear out his system while House savors the first long drink of expensive scotch.

As reality begins to blur pleasantly for House, it thuds heavily into focus for Wilson. He wants answers.

House falls into the stupor he's been looking forward to for days; Wilson visits the headstone he'd chosen for her with a dozen of the freshest roses he can find, then slips quietly into work to photocopy her chart. He wants to find a deserving target for his feelings in it.

He finds the same thing House dreams about: nothing.

* * *

The next day, it's officially been a week, and Wilson's no closer to coping with her death in a healthy manner than he has been.

House wakes up with a headache he knows can't be attributed entirely to alcohol consumption; he prescribes water, television, rest, and more alcohol.

They order the same greasy pizza for lunch, neither feeling guilty about being at home and disheveled at noon on a week day.

Wilson reluctantly does laundry. At a quarter after three, his therapist brings up the possibility of getting a new place. He makes four calls before the realtors stop answering their phones for the day, reminding himself that he shouldn't feel like he's leaving her each time he dials a new number.

House has to TiVo his soap because he's too far gone to follow the plot. But that's not new to him.

Wilson sits alone with all the lights on and wonders when he'll start to feel normal again. When he'll stop shuttling between despair and rage. He knows it's going to take time, but he hopes that time will pass quickly.

House sleeps on his couch amid a growing number of glass bottles. He doesn't waste his time with such a hope.

* * *

When Cameron calls and asks if he'd like to have coffee and talk, Wilson feels good when he says yes. Later, after talking to someone who's willing to listen without charging him for it, he feels good enough to cook himself a decent meal.

But he can't stop himself from feeling miserable that he's got no one to share it with, or from lying awake for hours because he can't sleep.

House wakes up to a message from Cuddy asking if he's all right and telling him, more importantly, that she's left a Vicodin refill for him at the pharmacy. He calls a different cab company for a ride to pick it up, just manages not to puke all over the backseat, and ignores the angry driver whose tip he remembers to forget.

They end up staring at the same UFC match at two a.m.

It's been ten days.

* * *

By the two week mark, the novelty of constant drunkenness has worn off for House. He's as certain as he's ever going to be that he hasn't had any more seizures. He gets dizzy, but not badly so. The headaches have begun to taper off, and anyway, they're nothing he can't conceal. Even the laceration on his head has healed, though the drill holes still need more time.

So he goes back to work.

Foreman eyes his backpack and bike helmet suspiciously but says nothing. House curtails the welcome back comments with a snappy remark and they fall into the rhythm of a case.

He discovers Wilson's not back yet after he gets hungry and finds no Wilson to pay for his food.

It's an easy case; he's got it wrapped up with a fancy bow by the end of the day. He wants to know why Wilson's not healing tumor-ridden bodies, so he goes to Amber's apartment and knocks.

"Why aren't you healing tumor-ridden bodies?" he asks when Wilson answers.

House takes in the 'I don't care about life' clothing—sweat pants, junk t-shirt—along with the raccoon-lined, pothead-colored eyes and greasy hair. He assumes that because he's had time to push the incident out of his mind, Wilson's had time to do the same.

"House," Wilson says tiredly, "go away."

"Answer my question," House counters. "They're not going to heal themselves."

Wilson sighs heavily. "I need some time."

House stares disbelievingly. Surely Wilson's skin isn't _this_ thin.

"It's been—what?—two weeks?"

"I need more time that," Wilson says as he closes the door. "Alone."

"It's not healthy to be alone all the time," House calls. "You said that, not me."

But he hears Wilson walk away and he's still too high from having solved the case to press the issue.

He goes home and drinks so much that he skips work the next day.


End file.
